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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/rosemaryOOsart 


I     KiTErti 


MAY  IS  1949 


TIIK 


II  0  S  E  M  A  11  Y, 


A   COLLECTION 


SACRED  AND  RELIGIOUS  POETRY, 


FROM    THE 


ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN    POETS, 


ELEGANT  ILLUSTRATIONS 


There's  Rosemary,  that's  for  rememberance; 

Pray  you,  love,  remember." 

Shakspeare. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
LINDSAY     AND    KLAKISTON 


Entered,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1849,  by 

LINDSAY   &   BLAKISTON, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


STEREOTYPED     BY     J.     F  A  G  A  N  . 
PRINTED      BY     C.     SHERMAN. 


(2) 


PREFACE 


The  numerous  volumes  of  religious  Poetry  that  are  pub- 
lished from  time  to  time,  have  a  tendency  to  elevate  the  tnstr 
and  to  deepen  religious  sentiment. 

Poetry  is  the  expression  of  beauty ;  and  everything  truly 
good  is  beautiful.  The  heart  that  can  appreciate  poetry  ma\ 
be  reached  by  the  devout  reflections  of  a  poet  upon  life,  death, 
and  a  future  state,  that  can  in  no  other  way  be  touched. 

In  presenting,  in  "  The  Rosemary,"  some  of  the  choicest 
selections  of  Sacred  Poetry  in  an  attractive  garb,  it  is  hoped 
that  it  will  be  received  as  an  evidence  of  tliat  religious  feeling 
which  at  times  has  actuated  most  of  the  great  poets,  and  been 
displayed  in  some  of  their  finest  productions. 


(3) 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


ENGRAVED     ON     STEEL, 


JOHN   SARTAIN,   PHILADELPHIA 


MOSES  SMITING  THE  ROCK MURILLO. . . .  Frontispiece. 

1 1 EBR0N BR  ACEBRIDGE  . .  Vignette. 

DANIEL  IN  THE  LIONS'  DEN Z1EGLER Page    04 

ELIJAH  FED  BY  RAVENS CORBOULD 107 

ABRAHAM  OFFERING  UP  ISAAC WESTALL 157 

GOD'S  COVENANT  WITH  NOAH ROTHERMEL 1% 

JOSEPH  SOLD  BY  HIS  BRETHREN ZUCCHI 220 

THE  WOMEN  AT  THE  SEPULCHRE P.  VIET 238 


(4) 


CONTENTS. 


PSALM  OF  LIFE H.  W    LONGFELLOW PaM    9 

RETIREMENT W.  OOWPEB 11 

8EASOXS  OF  PB  Wr.Il WAKE  19 

THE  WIDOW  OP  MAIN  AND  HER  SON HEBEB 11 

LORD  OF  ALL  WORLDS J    Q.  ADAMS 15 

EARLY  LOST,  EARLY  B  WED BLTIUNL  1G 

UNPROFITABLE  BERVANTS ...  ELIZA  OAKEB  BMTTH 17 

THE  VOICE  OF  RAMA BISHOP  DOAXE 18 

WEEP  NOT  FOR  THE  DEAD MART  E.  BROOKS 13 

THE  SOUL  THIRSTING  AFTER  GOD BISHOP  LOWTII 20 

CELESTIAL  SABBATH From  the  Russian 21 

LOVE  TO  GOD MRS.  BARB AULD 22 

TO  BE  OR  NOT  TO  BE BETHUNE 23 

A  POETS  PRAYER BERNARD  BARTON 24 

ACQUAINT  THYSELF  WITH  GOD KNOX 26 

THE  PRESENCE  OF  GOD MRS.  WELBY 87 

THE  EARLY  DEAD W.  G.  CLARK 30 

EVENING  MUSIC  WITH  THE  ANGELS JAS.  A.  HILLHOUSE 31 

IS  CHINA  OUR  NEIGHBOUR MRS.  HALE 32 

DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT MRS.  SIGOURXE V 33 

THE  SABBATH  EVENING G.  D.  PRENTICE 34 

THE  BALLAD  OF  LUTZEN GEO.  LUXT 36 

JESUS  WEPT MRS.  ST.  LEON  LOUD 39 

A  SACRED   MELODY WM.  LEGGETT 40 

THE  CRUCIFIXION MILMAX 41 

CHAMPIONS  OF  THE  TRUTH KEBLE 42 

A  MORNING  HYMN HANNAH   MORE 43 

THE  HERMIT JAS.  BEATTIE    44 

HOPE WM    COWPER 46 

HAPPINESS  WW  PEYRE  DINNIES 47 

THE  DEFE  \T  OF  SISLKA J.  OX7ALLAGHAN 48 

A  DIRGE CROLY 50 

ENERGY  Of  ADVERSITY LUELLA  J.  CASE 52 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  GIRL W.  II.  BURLEIGH  5J 

PRAYER  FOR  THE   SPIRIT BETHCNE 55 

(v) 


VI  CONTENTS. 

THE  HOUR  OF  PRAYER MRS.  HEMANS 56 

COVVPER'S  GRAVE ELIZABETH  B.  BARRETT....     57 

FORGIVENESS BISHOP  HEBER 59 

A  HYMN  ON  THE  SEASONS JAS.  THOMSON 60 

DANIEL  IN  THE  DEN  OF  LIONS .'  THOS.  DALE 64 

GIVE  ME  ARMOUR  OF  PROOF LUCY  HOOPER 67 

DAYS  OF  MY  YOUTH ST.  GEORGE  TUCKER 68 

HYMN  OF  PRAISE MILMAN 63 

A  RICH  MAN  SURPRISED  BY  DEATH BLAIR 71 

THE  VAUDOIS  HARVEST  HYMN H.  HASTINGS  WELD 72 

MORTALITY KNOX 73 

GRIEF  WAS  SENT  THEE  FOR  THY  GOOD THOS.  HAYNES  BAYLY 75 

THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES JESSIE  G.  M'CARTEE 76 

THE  LAND  WHICH  NO  MORTAL  MAY  KNOW BERNARD  BARTON 78 

LIFE BARRY  CORNWALL 79 

HUMAN  LIFE C.  C.  COLTON 80 

SMITING  THE  ROCK RICHARD  HOWITT 82 

CHRIST  IN  THE  TEMPEST EMMA  C.  EMBURY 83 

ODE  TO  THE  SAVIOUR MILMAN 85 

ON  A  PICTURE  OF  JERUSALEM MITFORD 87 

HENRY  OF  ASTI  AND  PIERO  ZENO RICHARD  MILNES 88 

GOOD-BY'E,  PROUD  WORLD R.  W.  EMERSON 90 

DIRGE  FOR  A  YOUNG  GIRL JAS.  T.  FIELDS 91 

IT  IS  GOOD  TO  BE  HERE HERBERT  KNOWLES 92 

AN  HOUR  WITH  GOD ANONYMOUS 94 

THE  CHRISTMAS  OFFERING W.  CROSWELL 95 

HYMN  OF  THE  VVALDENSES BRYrANT 96 

A  MOTHER'S  DIRGE  OVER  HER  CHILD MOIR 97 

THE  BRIDE  OF  HEAVEN L.  J.  PIERSON 99 

THE  WARNING  VOICE HARRISON 100 

HUMAN  LIFE FRANCIS  QUARLES 101 

THE  CHRISTIAN'S  DEATH G.  W.  DOANE 102 

INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY DANA 103 

THE  SYNAGOGUE CROSWELL   104 

GODS-ACRE H.  W.  LONGFELLOW 105 

I  THANK  THEE,  GOD,  FOR  WEAL  AND  WOE. . . .  ELIZA  COOK 106 

ELIJAH  FED  BY  RAVENS JAS.  GRAHAME 107 

ABRAHAM  DISMISSING  HAGAR THOS.  DALE 103 

THE  LAST  JUDGMENT WALTER  SCOTT 110 

THE  CHRISTIAN'S  PROGRESS KIRKE  WHITE Ill 

FAITH  IN  HUMBLE  LIFE HANNAH  MORE 112 

JERUSALEM JOHN  PIERPONT 113 

THE  HEART  SONG COXE 115 

WEEP  NOT  FOR  HER MOIR 116 


CONTENTS.  Nil 

GOD  AN  UNFAILING  K  I.I  t  QI  WORDSWORTH Ill 

BONG  OF  i  in:  JEWS MILMAN  119 

CONS  »;.  kTIONS  OF  Kill. I  ;i  >N  To  THE  POOR...  pi:::-  [VA1 

LLENCV  OF  CHR18T GILES  FLETCHEB 

WEEP  WOT  FOl  11 1 M  'I'll  \T  DIETH MRS    NORTON   UJ 

CHARITY LUBLLA  I.  CASE  ir, 

TIIH  CALL  OF  l>\\  ID KEBLE   198 

CONFIDENCE  IN  HEAVEN EMM  A  C    BMBC7R1 191 

rzekiej j  «;  whittier m 

THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLO  WE  Hi LONGFELLOW 133 

Tin:  ADVENT WLMAN 134 

Till:  DEPARTED PARK  RENJAMIN 135 

Till:  PARTED  BPUUT JOHN  MALCOLM 136 

SILENT  DEVOTION MRS.  SIGOURNEY 137 

CHRIST  BLESSING  THE  BREAD Miss  I.  \\DO\ 138 

INFANT  FAITH MISS  H.  F.  GOULD 139 

MY  CHILD REV.  JOHN  HERFONT 141 

HYMN  of  NATURE PEABODY 143 

THi:  CRUCIFIXION  MONTGOMERY 144 

ON  THi:  DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND JOHN  G.  BRAINARD 14$ 

THE  PRAYER  FOR  AIT VICTOR  HUGO 146 

THE  LAMENT  BY  THE  RIVERS  OF  BABYLON...  BYRON 148 

THE  BATTLE  OF  IVRY MACAULAY 149 

SPIRITUAL  WORSHIP BERNARD  BARTON 151 

HOPE  IN  DARKNESS  ISAAC  WATTS 153 

THE  SLEEP ELIZABETH  B.  BARRETT  ....   155 

SACRIFICE  OF  ABRAHAM N.  P.  WILMS 157 

HEBRON H.  H.  WELD 1G0 

RESIGNATION MILMAN 101 

TIME  YOUNG 163 

A I    II   \1\ MONTGOMERY 164 

PENITENTIAL  PRAYER THOS.  MACKELLAR 165 

THE  PRAYER  OF  A   LONELY  HEART F.  KEMBLE  BUTLER 166 

WASTED  FOUNTAINS ANNE  C.  LYNCH 168 

BELSB  \zz\R BARRY  CORNWALI 170 

CONSOLATION CRABBE   171 

CAMERONIANS  DREAM HYSLOP   ITS 

JESUS  STILLING  'JUL  TEMPEST HEBER 174 

TO  MY  MOTHER M    DAVIDSON 175 

To  AN  INI'  ANT  SISTER L.  D  \YII)So\ 176 

THOUGHTS  ON  DEATH DAVID  BATES 177 

CHRIST  A  SYMPATHISING   FRIEND GRANT ITS 

THIS  WOULD  A  BUBBLE (KARI.l.S 179 

THE  "THREE  MIGHTY" ANONYMOUS 180 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

THE  HOUR  OF  DEATH HEM ANS 182 

MORNING  HYMN C.  F.  HOFFMAN 184 

SCEVE  IN  GETHSEMANE N.  P.  WILLIS 185 

REFLECTIONS  ON  A  SKULL ANONYMOUS 187 

LONGING  FOR  HEAVEN  ANONYMOUS 189 

THE  TWO  HORSEMEN M1LMAN 190 

ANGELS E.  OAKES  SMITH 193 

REMORSE  KNOX 194 

THE  BOW  IN  THE  CLOUD ANONYMOUS 196 

A  LITANY R.  GRANT 199 

LITTLE  CHILDREN MARY  J.  REED 201 

DO  NOT  BLAME  ME ALICE  B.  NEIL 202 

THE  CONQUEROR  FROM  EDOM  AND  BOZRAH. . .  ROGERS 203 

DEATHS  FINAL  CONQUEST JAS.  SHIRLEY 204 

SABBATH  THOUGHTS MANT  205 

FUNERAL  HYMN BISHOP  HEBER 207 

THE  FLIGHT  INTO  EGYPT THOS.  DALE 208 

SLEEP KEBLE 210 

THE  VALEDICTION BAXTER 211 

WHERE  IS  HE NEELE 213 

IMITATION  OF  PERSIAN SOUTHEY 214 

CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT BERNARD  BARTON 215 

JEWISH  BATTLE  SONG GEORGE  LUNT 216 

THE  HARVEST  OF  THE  LORD MILMAN 218 

THE  MAID  OF  ANDALUSIA From  the  Spanish 219 

JOSEPH  SOLD  BY  HIS  BRETHREN THOS.  DALE 220 

TO  THE  FLOWERS MARY  HOWITT 223 

THE  CHRISTIAN  MARTYR REV.  HAMILTON  BUCHANAN.  224 

I  AM  WEARY ANONYMOUS 225 

A  PRAYER  IN  SICKNESS BARRY  CORNWALL 226 

MOURNING  OF  JERUSALEM ANONYMOUS 227 

THE  FALL  OF  BABYLON WOODS 228 

THE  LAST  CRUSADER SIR  E.  BULWER  LYTTON  ....   229 

THE  GRAVE From  the  German  of  Von  Galis .  231 

A  TESTAMENT  UPON  THE  PASSION SIR  NICHOLAS  BRETON 232 

THE  DISSOLUTION  OF  NATURE KNOX 233 

THE  CRUCIFIXION CROLY 234 

THE  RESURRECTION ANONYMOUS 238 

PASS  ON,  RELENTLESS  WORLD GEORGE  LUNT 241 

ACTIVE  CHRISTIAN  BENEVOLENCE CARLO  WILCOX 242 

FALLS  OF  NIAGARA J.  G.  BRAINARI) 244 

ODE  ON  THE  CREATION JOS.  ADDISON 245 

HYMN  HEBER 246 

SONG  OF  THE  STARS W.  C.  BRYANT 247 


the 


ROSEMARY. 


Psalm  of  £ife. 


OCHiT   TBS    BEABT   OF   IEI   YOUN3  MAN    SAID   TO   THE   rBALMIST. 


Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream ! 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !  Life  is  earnest! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

(9) 


10  PSALM    OF    LIFE. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 
In  the  bivouac  of  life, 

Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 
Be  a  hero  in  the  strife ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act, — act  in  the  living-  Present! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time ; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwreck'd  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labour  and  to  wait. 


H.   \Y.    LONCIKELLOW. 


Retirement. 


Far  from  the  world,  O  Lord,  I  flee, 

From  strife  and  tumult  far; 
From  scenes  where  Satan  wages  still 

His  most  successful  war. 

The  calm  retreat,  the  silent  shade, 
With  prayer  and  praise  agree; 

And  seem  by  thy  sweet  bounty  made 
For  those  who  follow  Thee. 

There,  if  thy  Spirit  touch  the  soul, 

And  grace  her  mean  abode, 
Oh  !  with  what  peace,  and  joy,  and  love, 

She  communes  with  her  God. 

There,  like  the  nightingale,  she  pours 

Her  solitary  lays ; 
Nor  asks  a  witness  of  her  song, 

Nor  thirsts  for  human  praise. 

Author  and  Guardian  of  my  life, 

Sweet  source  of  light  divine, 
And  (all  harmonious  names  in  one) 

My  Saviour,  Thou  art  mine  ! 

What  thanks  I  owe  Thee,  and  what  love, 
#       A  boundless,  endless  store, 
Shall  echo  through  the  realms  above, 
When  time  shall  be  no  more. 

W.  00WP3R. 


(11) 


Smsons  of  JJrager. 


To  prayer,  to  prayer ! — for  the  morning  breaks, 
And  earth  in  her  Maker's  smile  awakes. 
His  light  is  on  all  below  and  above — 
The  light  of  gladness,  and  life,  and  love. 
O  !  then,  on  the  breath  of  this  early  air, 
Send  upward  the  incense  of  grateful  prayer. 

To  prayer ! — for  the  glorious  sun  is  gone, 
And  the  gathering  darkness  of  night  comes  on. 
Like  a  curtain  from  God's  kind  hand  it  flows, 
To  shade  the  couch  where  his  children  repose. 
Then  kneel,  while  the  watching  stars  are  bright, 
And  give  your  last  thoughts  to  the  Guardian  of  night. 

To  prayer! — for  the  day  that  God  has  bless'd 
Comes  tranquilly  on  with  its  welcome  rest. 
It  speaks  of  creation's  early  bloom; 
It  speaks  of  the  Prince  who  burst  the  tomb. 
Then  summon  the  spirit's  exalted  powers, 
And  devote  to  heaven  the  hallowed  hours. 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  in  the  mother's  eyes, 

For  her  new-born  infant  beside  her  lies. 

O  hour  of  bliss !  when  the  heart  o'erflows 

With  rapture  a  mother  only  knows. 

Let  it  gush  forth  in  words  of  fervent  prayer ; 

Let  it  swell  up  to  heaven  for  her  precious  care. 

(12) 


SEASONS    OF    PRAYER.  13 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  in  that  gathering  band, 
Where  the  heart  is  pledged  with  the  trembling  hand. 
What  trying  thoughts  in  her  bosom  swell, 
As  the  bride  bids  parents  and  home  farewell ! 
Kneel  down  by  the  side  of  the  tearful  fair, 
And  strengthen  the  perilous  hour  with  prayer. 

Kneel  down  by  the  dying  sinner's  side, 
And  pray  for  his  soul  through  Him  who  died. 
Large  drops  of  anguish  are  thick  on  his  brow — 
Oh  !  what  is  earth  and  its  pleasures  now  ! 
And  what  shall  assuage  his  dark  despair, 
But  the  penitent  cry  of  humble  prayer  1 

Kneel  down  at  the  couch  of  departing  faith, 

And  hear  the  last  words  the  believer  saith. 

He  has  bidden  adieu  to  his  earthly  friends; 

There  is  peace  in  his  eye  that  upward  bends  ; 

There  is  peace  in  his  calm  confiding  air; 

For  his  last  thoughts  are  God's,  his  last  words  prayer. 

The  voice  of  prayer  at  the  sable  bier ! 

A  voice  to  sustain,  to  soothe,  and  to  cheer. 

It  commends  the  spirit  to  God  who  gave; 

It  lifts  the  thoughts  from  the  cold,  dark  grave; 

It  points  to  the  glory  where  He  shall  reign, 

Who  whisper'd,  "Thy  brother  shall  rise  again." 

The  voice  of  prayer  in  the  wrorld  of  bliss  ! 
But  gladder,  purer,  than  rose  from  this. 
The  ransom'd  shout  to  their  glorious  King, 
Where  no  sorrow  shades  the  soul  as  they  sing; 
But  a  sinless  and  joyous  song  they  raise; 
And  their  voice  of  prayer  is  eternal  praise. 


14  SEASONS    OF    PRAYER. 

Awake,  awake,  and  gird  up  thy  strength 

To  join  that  holy  band  at  length. 

To  Him  who  unceasing  love  displays, 

Whom  the  powers  of  nature  unceasingly  praise, 

To  Him  thy  heart  and  thy  hours  be  given; 

For  a  life  of  prayer  is  the  life  of  heaven. 


Sty  iDibotd  of  ;Nain  antr  Ijer  Son. 


Wake  not,  O  mother!  sounds  of  lamentation! 

Weep  not,  O  widow!  weep  not  hopelessly! 
Strong  is  His  arm,  the  Bringer  of  salvation, 

Strong  is  the  W7ord  of  God  to  succour  thee! 

Bear  forth  the  cold  corpse,  slowly,  slowly  bear  him : 
Hide  his  pale  features  with  the  sable  pall : 

Chide  not  the  sad  one  wildly  weeping  near  him : 
Widow'd  and  childless,  she  has  lost  her  all ! 

Why  pause  the  mourners  1    Who  forbids  our  weeping! 

Who  the  dark  pomp  of  sorrow  has  delayed  1 
"  Set  down  the  bier — he  is  not  dead  but  sleeping ! 

Young  man,  arise !" — He  spake,  and  was  obey'd ! 

Change  then,  O  sad  one,  grief  to  exultation: 
Worship  and  fall  before  Messiah's  knee  ; 

Strong  was  His  arm,  the  Bringer  of  salvation; 
Strong  was  the  Word  of  God  to  succour  thee ! 

HEBER. 


£orb  of  all  iUorlbs. 


Lord  of  all  worlds,  let  thanks  and  praise 

To  thee  forever  fill  my  soul ; 
With  blessings  thou  hast  crowned  my  days, 

My  heart,  my  head,  my  hand  control: 
O,  let  no  vain  presumptions  rise, 

No  impious  murmur  in  my  heart, 
To  crave  the  boon  thy  will  denies, 

Or  shrink  from  ill  thy  hands  impart. 

Thy  child  am  I ;  and  not  an  hour, 

Revolving  in  the  orbs  above, 
But  brings  some  token  of  thy  power, 

But  brings  some  token  of  thy  love  ; 
And  shall  this  bosom  dare  repine, 

In  darkness  dare  deny  the  dawn, 
Or  spurn  the  treasures  of  the  mine, 

Because  one  diamond  is  withdrawn] 

The  fool  denies — the  fool  alone — 

Thy  being,  Lord,  and  boundless  might; 
Denies  the  firmament,  thy  throne, 

Denies  the  sun's  meridian  light; 
Denies  the  fashion  of  his  frame, 

The  voice  he  hears,  the  breath  he  draws : 
O  idiot  atheist !  to  proclaim 

Effects  unnumbered  without  cause  ! 

Matter  and  mind,  mysterious  one, 

Are  man's  for  threescore  years  and  ten ; 
Where,  ere  the  thread  of  life  was  spun? 

Where,  when  reduced  to  dust  again  ] 
All-seeing  God,  the  doubt  suppress  ; 

The  doubt  thou  only  canst  relieve; 
My  soul  thy  Saviour-Son  shall  blt-ss, 

Fly  to  thy  gospel,  and  believe. 

J.  Q.   ADAMS. 


15 


Qforlt)  Cost,  (Sarin  SaneiX 


Within  her  downy  cradle,  there  lay  a  little  child, 
And  a  group  of  hovering  angels  unseen  upon  her  smiled ; 
When  a  strife  arose  among  them,  a  loving,  holy  strife, 
Which  should  shed  the  richest  blessing  over  the  new-born  life. 

One  breathed  upon  her  features,  and  the  babe  in  beauty  grew, 
With  a  cheek  like  morning's  blushes,  and  an  eye  of  azure  hue; 
Till  every  one  who  saw  her,  were  thankful  for  the  sight 
Of  a  face  so  sweet  and  radiant  with  ever  fresh  delight. 

Another  gave  her  accents,  and  a  voice  as  musical 
As  a  spring-bird's  joyous  carol,  or  a  rippling  streamlet's  fall ; 
Till  all  who  heard  her  laughing,  or  her  words  of  childish  grace, 
Loved  as  much  to  listen  to  her,  as  to  look  upon  her  face. 

Another  brought  from  heaven  a  clear  and  gentle  mind, 
And  within  the  lovely  casket  the  precious  gem  enshrined ; 
Till  all  who  knew  her  wondered  that  God  could  be  so  good, 
As  to  bless  with  such  a  spirit  a  world  so  cold  and  rude. 

Thus  did  she  grow  in  beauty,  in  melody,  and  truth, 

The  budding  of  her  childhood  just  opening  into  youth  ; 

And  to  our  hearts  yet  dearer  every  moment  than  before, 

She  became,  though  we  thought  fondly,  heart  could  not  love  her  more. 

Then  out  spake  another  angel,  nobler,  brighter  than  the  rest, 
As  with  strong  arm,  but  tender,  he  caught  her  to  his  breast: 
"Ye  have  made  her  all  too  lovely  for  a  child  of  mortal  race, 
But  no  shade  of  human  sorrow  shall  darken  o'er  her  face. 

(16  ) 


EARLY    LOST,    EARLY    S.WI.U.  17 

,k  Ye  have  tuned  to  gladness  only  the  accents  of  DOT  tongne, 

And  no  wail  of  human  anguish  shall  from  her  lips  be  wrung: 
Nor  shall  the  soul  that  shineth  so  purely  from  within 
Her  form  of  earth-born  frailty,  ever  know  a  sense  of  sin. 

"  Lulled  in  my  faithful  bosom,  I  will  bear  her  far  away, 
When  there  is  no  sin,  nor  anguish,  nor  sorrow,  nor  decay ; 
And  mine  a  boon  more  glorious  than  all  your  gifts  shall  be  — 
Lo  !  I  crown  her  happy  spirit  with  immortality  !" 

Then  on  his  heart  our  darling  yielded  up  her  gentle  breath, 

For  the  stronger,  brighter  angel,  who  loved  her  best,  was  Death  ! 


BETHUNE. 


Unprofitable  Servants. 


Vain  we  number  every  duty, 

Number  all  our  prayers  and  tears, 
Still  the  spirit  lacketh  beauty, 

Still  it  droops  with  many  fears. 

Soul  of  Love,  O  boundless  Giver, 

Who  didst  all  thyself  impart, 
And  thy  blood,  a  flowing  river, 

Told  how  large  the  loving  heart  ; 

Now  we  see  how  poor  the  offering 

We  have  on  thine  altar  cast, 
And  we  bless  thee  for  the  suffering 

Which  hath  taught  us  love  at  last. 

We  may  feel  an  inward  gladness 

For  the  truth  and  goodness  won, 
But  far  deeper  is  the  sadness 

For  the  good  we  leave  undone. 

ELIZABBTH    OAKE3    SMITH. 


3I)c  Doice  of  Rama. 


Rachel  weeping  for  her  children,  and  would  not  be  comforted." 


Heard  ye,  from  Rama's  ruined  walls, 

That  voice  of  bitter  weeping  1 — 
Is  it  the  moan  of  fetter'd  slave, 

His  watch  of  sorrow  keeping  1 
Heard  ye,  from  Rama's  wasted  plains, 

That  cry  of  lamentation  ] — 
Is  it  the  wail  of  Israel's  sons, 

For  Salem's  devastation] 

Ah,  no — a  sorer  ill  than  chains 

That  bitter  wail  is  waking, 
And  deeper  woe  than  Salem's  fall 

That  tortured  heart  is  breaking  : 
'Tis  Rachel,  of  her  sons  bereft, 

Who  lifts  that  voice  of  weeping; 
And  childless  are  the  eyes  that  there 

Their  watch  of  grief  are  keeping. 

0  !  who  shall  tell  what  fearful  pangs 

That  mother's  heart  are  rending, 
As  o'er  her  infant's  little  grave 

Her  wasted  form  is  bending  ! 
From  many  an  eye  that  weeps  to-day 

Delight  may  beam  to-morrow ; 
But  she — her  precious  babe  is  not ! 

And  what  remains  but  sorrow  ? 


(18) 


THE    VOICE    OF    KAMA.  19 

Bereaved  one  !  I  may  not  chide 

Thy  tears  and  bitter  sobbing — 
Weep  on!  'twill  cool  that  burning  brow, 

Au.l  still  that  bosom's  throbbing: 
But  be  not  thine  such  grief  as  theirs 

To  whom  no  hope  is  given — 
Snatched  from  the  world,  its  sins  and  snares, 

Thy  infant  rests  in  heaven. 

BISHOP  BOANE. 


©!),  iUccp  not  for  tlje  Peitb. 

Jeremiah,  xxii.  10. 

Oh,  weep  not  for  the  dead  ! 
Rather,  oh  rather  give  the  tear 
To  those  that  darkly  linger  here, 

When  all  besides  are  fled; 
Weep  for  the  spirit  withering 
In  its  cold  cheerless  sorrowing, 
Weep  for  the  young  and  lovely  one 
That  ruin  darkly  revels  on ; 

But  never  be  a  tear-drop  shed 

For  them,  the  pure  enfranchised  dead. 

Oh,  weep  not  for  the  dead. 
No  more  for  them  the  blighting  chill, 
The  thousand  shades  of  earthly  ill, 

The  thousand  thorns  we  tread  ; 
Weep  for  the  life-charm  early  flown, 
The  spirit  broken,  bleeding,  lone; 
\\  i  ep  for  the  death  pangs  of  the  heart, 
Ere  being  from  the  bosom  part ; 

But  never  be  a  tear-drop  given, 

To  those  that  rest  in  yon  blue  heaven. 

UAKY.    E.    BROOKS. 


<M)e  Soul  thirsting  after  (Sob. 


AS  pants  the  wearied  hart  for  cooling  springs, 
That  sinks  exhausted  in  the  summer's  chase; 
So  pants  my  soul  for  Thee,  great  King  of  kings ! 
So  thirsts  to  reach  thy  sacred  dwelling-place. 

On  bitter  tears  my  pining  soul  hath  fed, 
While  taunting  foes  deride  my  deep  despair; 
"  Say,  where  is  now  thy  great  Deliverer  fled  ? 
Thy  mighty  God — abandon'd  wanderer,  where?" 

Oft  dwell  my  thoughts  on  those  thrice  happy  days, 
When  to  thy  courts  I  led  the  willing  throng; 
Our  mirth  was  worship,  all  our  pleasure  praise, 
And  festal  joys  still  closed  with  sacred  song. 

Why  throb,  my  heart1?  Why  sink,  my  saddening  soul? 
Why  droop  to  earth  with  various  woes  oppress'd  ? 
My  years  shall  yet  in  blissful  circles  roll, 
And  peace  be  yet  an  inmate  of  this  breast. 

By  Jordan's  banks  with  devious  steps  I  stray, 
O'er  Hermon's  rugged  rocks  and  deserts  drear : 
E'en  there  thy  hand  shall  guide  my  lonely  way, 
There  thy  remembrance  shall  my  spirit  cheer. 

In  rapid  floods  the  vernal  torrents  roll, 
Harsh  sounding  cataracts  responsive  roar ; 
Thine  angry  billows  overwhelm  my  soul, 
And  dash  my  shatter'd  bark  from  shore  to  shore. 

(20) 


THE    SOUL    THIRSTING    AFTER    GOD.  J 1 

Yet  thy  sure  mercies  ever  in  my  sight, 
My  heart  shall  gladden  through  the  tedious  day; 
And,  'midst  the  dark  and  gloomy  shades  of  night, 
To  Thee  I'll  duly  tune  the  grateful  lay. 

Rock  of  my  hope !  great  solace  of  my  heart ! 

O  !  why  desert  the  offspring  of  thy  care, 

While  taunting  foes  thus  point  the  invidious  dart — 

•'Where  is  thy  God?  abandon'd  wanderer,  where!" 

Why  faint,  my  soul  1     Why  doubt  Jehovah's  aid  1 
Thy  God,  the  God  of  mercy  still  shall  prove; 
Within  his  courts  thy  thanks  shall  yet  be  paid ; — 
Unquestion'd  be  his  faithfulness  and  love. 

BISHOP    LOWTH- 


fclje  delcsttal  Sabbatl). 


The  golden  palace  of  my  God, 

Towering  above  the  clouds,  I  see; 
Beyond  the  cherub's  bright  abode, 

Higher  than  angel's  thoughts  can  be. 
How  can  I  in  those  courts  appear, 

Without  a  wedding-garment  on] 
Conduct  me,  thou  Life-giver,  there, 

Conduct  me  to  thy  glorious  throne  ! 
And  clothe  me  with  thy  robes  of  light, 
And  lead  me  through  sin's  darksome  night, 
My  Saviour  and  my  God. 

Russian  Poetry. 


Cor»e  to  (Sob. 


"  Although  the  fig-tree  shall  not  blossom,  neither  shall  fruit  be  in  the  vines ;  the  labour  of  the 
olive  shall  fail,  and  the  fields  shall  yield  no  meat;  the  flocks  shall  be  cut  off  from  the  fold,  and 
there  shall  be  no  herd  in  the  stalls;  yet  I  will  rejoice  in  the  Lord,  I  will  joy  in  the  God  of  my 
salvation."— Habakkuk  iii.  17,  18. 


Praise  to  God,  immortal  praise, 
For  the  love  that  crowns  our  days  ; 
Bounteous  source  of  every  joy, 
Let  thy  praise  our  tongues  employ; 


For  the  blessing  of  the  field, 
For  the  stores  the  gardens  yield, 
For  the  vine's  exalted  juice, 
For  the  generous  olive's  use  ; 

Flocks  that  whiten  all  the  plain, 
Yellow  sheaves  of  ripen'd  grain, 
Clouds  that  drop  their  fattening  dews, 
Suns  that  temperate  warmth  diffuse; 

All  that  spring,  with  bounteous  hand, 
Scatters  o'er  the  smiling  land  ; 
All  that  liberal  autumn  pours 
From  her  rich  o'erflowing  stores. 

These  to  Thee,  my  God,  we  owe, 
Source  whence  all  our  blessings  flow; 
And  for  these  my  soul  shall  raise 
Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise. 


(22) 


LOVE    TO    GOD.  23 

Vet  should  rising  whirlwinds  tear 
From  its  stem  the  ripening  ear; 
Should  the  fig-tree's  blasted  shoot 
Drop  her  green  untimely  fruit ; 

Should  the  vine  put  forth  no  more, 
Nor  the  olive  yield  her  store; 
Though  the  sickening  flocks  should  fall, 
And  the  herds  desert  the  stall; 

Should  thine  altered  hand  restrain 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain ; 
Blast  each  opening  bud  of  joy, 
And  the  rising  year  destroy  ; 

Yet  to  Thee  my  soul  should  raise 
Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise ; 
And  when  every  blessing 's  flown, 
Love  Thee — for  thyself  alone. 

MR3.  BARBATJLD. 


"So  be  or  not  to  be." 


When  the  heart  beats  high  with  youthful  pride, 
And  the  form  we  love  is  by  our  side ; 

When  friends  are  fond,  and  life  is  gay 
With  all  th'  enchantment  hope  can  give ; 

Then  all  around  us  seems  to  say, 
O  what  a  pleasant  thing  to  live! 

But  when  youth's  glowing  fires  decay, 
And  the  form  we  love  has  pass'd  away ; 

When  hope  has  fled,  and  one  by  one 
Our  early  friends  in  silence  lie ; 

(If  God  would  say  our  work  was  done), 
O  what  a  pleasant  thing  to  die  ! 

BETHONZ. 


%  |)orf0  Jprager. 


O  God  !  it  is  an  awful  thing;  indeed, 

For  one  who  estimates  our  nature  well, 
Be  what  it  may  his  outward  sect,  or  creed, 

To  name  thee,  thou  incomprehensible  ! 
Hadst  thou  not  chosen  of  thyself  to  tell, 

As  in  thy  gospel  thou  hast  done ;  nor  less, 
By  condescending  in  our  hearts  to  dwell ; 

Could  man  have  ever  found  to  thee  access, 
Or  worshipp'd  thee  aright  in  spiritual  holiness  1 

No !  for  the  utmost  that  we  could  have  done, 

Were  to  have  raised,  as  Paul  at  Athens  saw, 
Altars  unto  the  dread  and  unknown  One, 

Bending  before  we  knew  not  what  with  awe ; 
And  even  now,  instructed  by  a  law 

Holier  than  that  of  Moses,  what  know  we 
Of  thee,  the  Highest]     Yet  thou  bidst  us  draw 

Near  thee  in  spirit;  O,  then  pardon  me 
If,  in  this  closing  strain,  I  crave  a  boon  of  thee. 

It  shall  be  this  .  Permit  me  not  to  place 
My  soul's  affections  on  the  things  of  earth ; 

But,  conscious  of  the  treasures  of  thy  grace, 
To  let  them,  in  my  inmost  heart,  give  birth 


(24) 


To  gratitude  proportion'd  to  their  worth  : 

Teach  me  to  feel  that  all  that  thou  hast  made 

Upon  this  mighty  globe's  gigantic  girth, 
Though  meant  with  filial  love  to  be  survey'd, 

Is  nothing  to  thyself — the  shadow  of  a  shade. 

If  thou  hast  given  me,  more  than  unto  some, 

A  feeling  sense  of  nature's  beauties  fair, 
Which  sometimes  renders  admiration  dumb, 

From  consciousness  that  words  cannot  declare 
The  beauty  thou  hast  scatter'd  everywhere ; 

O  grant  that  this  may  lead  me  still,  through  all 
Thy  works,  to  thee !  nor  prove  a  treacherous  snare 

Adapted  those  affections  to  enthrall 
Which  should  be  thine  alone,  and  waken  at  thy  call. 

I  would  not  merely  dream  my  life  away 

In  fancied  rapture,  or  imagined  joy  ; 
Nor  that  a  perfumed  flower,  a  dew-gemm'd  spray, 

A  murmuring  brook,  or  any  prouder  toy, 
Should,  for  its  own  sake,  thought  or  song  employ ; 

So  far  alone  as  nature's  charms  can  lead 
To  thee  who  framed  them  all,  and  can  destroy, 

Or  innocent  enjoyment  serve  to  feed, 
Grant  me  to  gaze  and  love,  and  thus  thy  works  to  read. 

But  while  from  one  extreme  thy  power  may  keep 

My  erring  frailty,  0  preserve  me  still 
From  dulness !  nor  let  cold  indifference  steep 

My  senses  in  oblivion:  if  the  thrill 
Of  early  bliss  must  sober,  as  it  will, 


26 


And  should,  when  earthly  things  to  heavenly  yield, 
1  would  have  feelings  left  time  cannot  chill; 

That  while  I  yet  can  walk  through  grove  or  field, 
I  may  be  conscious  there  of  charms  by  thee  reveal'd. 

And  when  I  shall,  as  soon  or  late  I  must, 

Become  infirm ;  in  age,  if  I  grow  old ; 
Or,  sooner,  if  my  strength  should  fail  its  trust; 

When  I  relinquish  haunts  where  I  have  stroll'd 
At  morn  or  eve,  and  can  no  more  behold 

Thy  glorious  works  :  forbid  me  to  repine; 
Let  memory  still  their  loveliness  unfold 

Before  my  mortal  eye,  and  let  them  shine 
With  borrow'd  light  from  thee,  for  they  are  thine ! 

BERNARD  BARTON. 


Acquaint  ffiljtjadf  roitl)  <&ab. 

Job  xxii.  21. 

Acquaint  thee,  0  mortal !  acquaint  thee  with  God ; 
And  joy,  like  the  sunshine,  shall  beam  on  thy  road; 
And  peace,  like  the  dew-drop,  shall  fall  on  thy  head  ; 
And  sleep,  like  an  angel,  shall  visit  thy  bed. 

Acquaint  thee,  O  mortal !  acquaint  thee  with  God  ; 
And  he  shall  be  with  thee  when  fears  are  abroad, 
Thy  safeguard,  in  danger  that  threatens  thy  path, — 
Thy  joy,  in  the  valley  and  shadow  of  death. 


£l)c  presence  of  (Cob. 


O,  Thou  who  fling'st  so  fair  a  robe 

Of  clouds  around  the  hills  untrod — 
Those  mountain-pillars  of  the  globe, 

Whose  peaks  sustain  thy  throne,  0  God  ! 
All  glittering  round  the  sunset  skies, 

Their  fleecy  wings  are  lightly  furl'd, 
As  if  to  shade  from  mortal  eyes 

The  glories  of  yon  upper  world  ; 
There,  while  the  evening  star  upholds, 
In  one  bright  spot,  their  purple  folds, 
My  spirit  lifts  its  silent  prayer, 
For  thou,  0  God  of  love,  art  there. 

The  summer  flowers,  the  fair,  the  sweet, 

Up-springing  freely  from  the  sod, 
In  whose  soft  looks  we  seem  to  meet 

At  every  step,  thy  smiles,  O  God  ! 
The  humblest  soul  their  sweetness  shares, 

They  bloom  in  palace-hall,  or  cot, — 
Give  me,  0  Lord,  a  heart  like  theirs, 

Contented  with  my  lowly  lot; 
Within  their  pure,  ambrosial  bells, 
In  odours  sweet,  thy  Spirit  dwells. 
Their  breath  may  seem  to  scent  the  air — 
'T  is  thine,  O  God  !  for  Thou  art  there. 

Hark!  from  yon  casement,  low  and  dim, 
What  sounds  are  these  that  fill  the  breeze? 

It  is  the  peasant's  evening  hymn 
Arrests  the  fishers  on  the  seas; 

(27) 


28  THE    PRESENCE    OF    GOD. 

The  old  man  leans  his  silver  hairs 

Upon  his  light  suspended  oar, 
Until  those  soft,  delicious  airs 

Have  died  like  ripples  on  the  shore. 
Why  do  his  eyes  in  softness  roll  1 
What  melts  the  manhood  from  his  soul? 
His  heart  is  filled  with  peace  and  prayer, 
For  Thou,  O  God,  art  with  him  there. 


The  birds  among  the  summer  blooms 

Pour  forth  to  Thee  their  hymns  of  love, 
When,  trembling  on  uplifted  plumes, 

They  leave  the  earth  and  soar  above; 
We  hear  their  sweet,  familiar  airs 

Where'er  a  sunny  spot  is  found : 
How  lovely  is  a  life  like  theirs, 

Diffusing  sweetness  all  around  ! 
From  clime  to  clime,  from  pole  to  pole, 
Their  sweetest  anthems  softly  roll ; 
Till,  melting  on  the  realms  of  air, 
They  reach  thy  throne  in  grateful  prayer. 


The  stars — those  floating  isles  of  light, 

Round  which  the  clouds  unfurl  their  sails, 
Pure  as  a  woman's  robe  of  white, 

That  trembles  round  the  form  it  veils, 
They  touch  the  heart  as  with  a  spell, 

Yet  set  the  soaring  fancy  free : 
And,  O  !  how  sweet  the  tales  they  tell 

Of  faith,  of  peace,  of  love,  and  Thee. 
Each  raging  storm  that  wildly  blows, 
Each  balmy  breeze  that  lifts  the  rose, 
Sublimely  grand,  or  softly  fair — 
They  speak  of  thee,  for  Thou  art  there. 


THE    PRESENCE    OF    (-ul).  29 

The  spirit,  oft  oppress'd  irilh  doubt, 

May  strive  to  cast  thee  from  its  thoo| 
But  who  can  shut  thy  presence  out. 

Thou  mighty  Guest  that  com'st  unsought! 
In  spite  of  all  our  cold  resolves, 

Magnetic-like,  where'er  we  be, 
Still,  still  the  thoughtful  heart  revolves, 

And  points,  all  trembling,  up  to  thee. 
We  cannot  shield  a  troubled  breast 
Beneath  the  confines  of  the  blest — 
Above,  below,  on  earth,  in  air, 
For  Thou,  the  living  God,  art  there. 


Yet,  far  beyond  the  clouds  outspread, 

Where  soaring  fancy  oft  hath  been, 
There  is  a  land  where  Thou  hast  said 

The  pure  in  heart  shall  enter  in  ; 
There,  in  those  realms  so  calmly  bright, 

How  many  a  loved  and  gentle  one 
Bathe  their  soft  plumes  in  living  light, 

That  sparkles  from  thy  radiant  throne ! 
There,  souls  once  soft  and  sad  as  ours, 
Look  up  and  sing  mid  fadeless  flowers ; 
They  dream  no  more  of  grief  and  care, 
For  Thou,  the  God  of  peace,  art  there. 

MBS.  "W3LBY. 


®I)c  Sarin  EJcair. 


If  it  be  sad  to  mark  the  bow'd  with  age 
Sink  in  the  halls  of  the  remorseless  tomb, 

Closing-  the  changes  of  life's  pilgrimage 

In  the  still  darkness  of  its  mouldering  gloom : 

0  !  what  a  shadow  o'er  the  heart  is  flung, 

When  peals  the  requiem  of  the  loved  and  young ! 

They  to  wmose  bosoms,  like  the  dawn  of  spring 
To  the  unfolding  bud  and  scented  rose, 

Comes  the  pure  freshness  age  can  never  bring, 
And  fills  the  spirit  with  a  rich  repose, 

How  shall  we  lay  them  in  their  final  rest, 

How  pile  the  clods  upon  their  wasting  breast] 

Life  openeth  brightly  to  their  ardent  gaze; 

A  glorious  pomp  sits  on  the  gorgeous  sky ; 
O'er  the  broad  world  hope's  smile  incessant  plays, 

And  scenes  of  beauty  win  the  enchanted  eye  : 
How  sad  to  break  the  vision,  and  to  fold 
Each  lifeless  form  in  earth's  embracing  mould ! 

Yet  this  is  life  !  to  mark,  from  day  to  day, 
Youth,  in  the  freshness  of  its  morning  prime, 

Pass  like  the  anthem  of  a  breeze  away, 

Sinking  in  waves  of  death  ere  chill'd  by  time! 

Ere  yet  dark  years  on  the  warm  cheek  had  shed 

Autumnal  mildew  o'er  the  rose-like  red  ! 


(30) 


TEE    i.ahi.v    DEAD.  31 

Ami  y  t  what  mourner,  though  the  \>-  i 

Be  dimly  thoughtful  in  its  burning  * 
But  should  with  rapture  gaze  upon  tin 

Through  whose  far  depths  the  spirit's  v. :,  r»1 

There  gleams  eternal  o'er  their  ways  are  Hung, 
Who  fade  from  earth  while  yet  their  years  are  young  ! 

VZ.  O.   CLA.RX. 


(foemitg  Illustc  of  tljc  Angels. 


Low  waiblings,  now,  and  solitary  harps, 
Were  heard  among-  the  angels,  touched  and.  tuned 
As  to  an  evening  hymn,  preluding  soft 
To  cherub  voices;  louder  as  they  swelled, 
Deep  strings  struck  in,  and  hoarser  instruments, 
Mixed  with  clear,  silver  sounds,  till  concord  rose, 
Full  as  the  harmony  of  winds  to  heaven; 
Yet  sweet  as  nature's  springtide  melodies 
To  some  worn  pilgrim,  first  with  glistening  eyes 
Greeting  his  native  valley,  whence  the  sounds 
Of  rural  gladness,  herds,  and  bleating  flocks, 
The  chirp  of  birds,  blithe  voices,  lowing  kine, 
The  dash  of  waters,  reeds,  or  rustic  pipe, 
Blent  with  the  dulcet,  distance-mellowed  bell, — 
Come,  like  the  echo  of  his  early  joys. 
In  every  pause,  from  spirits  in  mid  air, 
Responsive  still  were  golden  viols  heard, 
And  heavenly  symphonies  stole  faintly  down. 

JAMES    A.    HXUiBOOSA. 


3s  (Hl)inct  our  33ngl)botir ? 


And  Jesus  said,  Which  was  neighbour  unto  him  that  fell  among  the  thieves?— And  he  said,  He 
that  showed  mercy  on  him.    Then  said  Jesus  unto  him,  Go  and  do  thou  likewise.— St.  Luke. 


Can  China  be  our  neighbour, 

And  yet  receive  no  care  1 
Shall  Christians  cease  their  labour, 

And  leave  her  to  despair ! 
Her  children,  sunk  in  sorrow, 

Are  sick  with  many  ills  : 
To-day  is  sad — to-morrow 

A  deeper  shadow  fills. 

And  bow'd  in  tribulation, 

No  light  athwart  the  gloom, 
That  old  and  haughty  nation 

Seems  hastening  to  her  doom ; 
The  cup  of  woe  is  tasted, — 

And  must  she,  'neath  war's  frown, 
Like  Babylon  be  wasted — 

Like  Egypt  trodden  down  1 

Oh  !  when  those  nations  perish'd, 

No  Saviour's  name  was  known, 
No  brother's  love  was  cherish'd — 

No  Christian  kindness  shown; 
Now,  where  's  the  heart  so  frozen 

But  feels  the  Gospel  ray  1 
And  we,  as  Freedom's  chosen, 

Should  lead  in  Mercy's  way. 

(32) 


is   CHINA    OUB    REIGHBOU1  ?  33 

As  gentle  dews,  distilling, 

Cause  wither'd  plants  to  live, 
So  Love,  her  work  fulfilling, 

Her  alms  and  prayers  must  give  ; 
Till  China's  millions,  breaking 

From  sin's  dark  bonds,  arise, 
Like  death  to  life  awaking, 

When  Christ  descends  the  skies! 

As  early  flowers,  upspringing, 

Proclaim  the  opening  year, 
So  love  and  hope  are  bringing 

The  day  of  promise  near; — 
Each  tear  by  pity  given, 

Each  mite  in  faith  bestow'd, 
Makes  earth  more  like  to  heaven, 

Where  all  is  done  for  God. 

MR3.  HALE. 


Pccttl)  of  an  Infant 


Death  found  strange  beauty  on  that  polished  brow, 
And  dashed  it  out.     There  was  a  tint  of  rose 
On  cheek  and  lip.     He  touched  the  veins  with  ice, 
And  the  rose  faded.     Forth  from  those  blue  eyes 
There  spake  a  wishful  tenderness,  a  doubt 
Whether  to  grieve  or  sleep,  which  innocence 
Alone  may  wear.     With  ruthless  haste  he  bound 
The  silken  fringes  of  those  curtaining  lids 
Forever.     There  had  been  a  murmuring  sound 
With  which  the  babe  would  claim  its  mother's  ear, 
Charming  her  even  to  tears.     The  spoiler  set 
The  seal  of  silence.     But  there  beamed  a  smile, 
So  fixed,  so  holy,  from  that  cherub  brow, 
Death  gazed,  and  left  it  there.     He  dared  not  steal 
The  signet-ring  of  heaven. 

MRS.  SIOOURNEY. 

3 


Sabbat!)  gfotmng. 

How  calmly  sinks  the  parting  sun  ! 

Yet  twilight  lingers  still ; 
And  beautiful  as  dream  of  Heaven 

It  slumbers  on  the  hill ; 
Earth  sleeps,  with  all  her  glorious  things, 
Beneath  the  Holy  Spirit's  wings, 
And,  rendering  back  the  hues  above, 
Seems  resting  in  a  trance  of  love. 

Round  yonder  rocks  the  forest-trees 

In  shadowy  groups  recline, 
Like  saints  at  evening  bow'd  in  prayer 

Around  their  holy  shrine; 
And  through  their  leaves  the  night-winds  blow 
So  calm  and  still,  their  music  low 
Seems  the  mysterious  voice  of  prayer, 
Soft  echo'd  on  the  evening  air. 

And  yonder  western  throng  of  clouds, 

Retiring  from  the  sky, 
So  calmly  move,  so  softly  glow, 

They  seem  to  fancy's  eye 
Bright  creatures  of  a  better  sphere, 
Come  down  at  noon  to  worship  here, 
And,  from  their  sacrifice  of  love, 
Returning  to  their  home  above. 

The  blue  isles  of  the  golden  sea, 

The  night-arch  floating  by, 
The  flowers  that  gaze  upon  the  heavens, 

The  bright  streams  leaping  by, 


(34) 


SABBATH     EVENING,  35 

Are  living  with  religion — deep 
On  earth  and  sea  its  glories  sleep, 
And  mingle  with  the  Starlight  rays, 
Like  the  soft  light  of  parted  days. 

The  spirit  of  the  holy  eve 

Comes  through  the  silent  air 
To  feeling's  hidden  spring,  and  wakes 

A  gush  of  music  there ! 
And  the  far  depths  of  ether  beam 
So  passing  fair,  we  almost  dream 
That  we  can  rise,  and  wander  through 
Their  open  paths  of  trackless  blue. 

Each  soul  is  fill'd  with  glorious  dreams, 

Each  pulse  is  beating  wild  ; 
And  thought  is  soaring  to  the  shrine 

Of  glory  undefiled  ! 
And  holy  aspirations  start, 
Like  blessed  angels,  from  the  heart, 
And  bind — for  earth's  dark  ties  are  riven — 
Our  spirits  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 

O.  D.  PBENTICB. 


(El)e  Ballab  of  £ut;en. 


On  Lutzen's  mom,  ere  heaven's  red  flame  the  drooping  clouds  had  kiss'd, 
Or  break  of  day  had  roll'd  away  the  morning's  heaving  mist, 
The  word  was  pass'd  along  the  line,  and  all  our  men  array'd 
Stood  front  and  rear,  each  musketeer,  in  silence  and  in  shade. 

No  trumpet  swell'd  its  rallying  blast,  no  clarion's  pealing  breath, 
No  beaten  drum  proclaim'd  "  they  come,"  across  the  field  of  death ; 
But  shrouded  in  the  wreathing  mist,  with  steadfast  tread  and  slow, 
With  hearts  prepared  and  weapons  bared,  we  march'd  upon  the  foe. 

"  Halt,  halt !"  the  cry  rang  through  the  host,  "their  ranks  are  all  in  view, 
Yon  murky  sun,  that  rose  so  dun,  the  mantling  gray  breaks  through; 
Let  fools  down  battle's  gory  paths  rush  headlong  on  to  death, 
We  own  the  Power  that  rules  the  hour,  the  Lord  of  life  and  breath !" 

And  full  before  the  Leaguers'  host  we  seek,  on  bended  knee, 
With  lifted  face,  His  sovereign  grace,  whose  word  is  fate's  decree. 
To  Him  uprose  in  chorus  deep  each  squadron's  lofty  psalm, 
And  swell'd  in  air  our  heartfelt  prayer  on  Nature's  breathless  calm. 

The  king  was  there, — with  burning  hope  his  manly  visage  glow'd, 
As  oft  before,  at  battle's  hour,  along  our  front  he  rode ; 
"  Now,  soldiers,  now,"  and  answer'd  well  each  heart  the  kingly  tone, 
"For  holy  faith,  for  life  or  death, — Lord  Jesus,  aid  thine  own!" 

(36) 


THE    BALLAD    OF    LI    I /IN.  37 

Impetuous  roll'd  the  pealing  drum,  wild  rang  the  trumpet  swell, 
All  round  the  sky  our  battle-cry  in  thundering  echoes  fell, 
"  God  and  the  cause," — "  on,  comrades,  on!  we  own  no  papal  sway, — 
What  servile  band  shall  dare  to  stand  before  our  charge  to-day !" 

And  many  a  plumed  head  rose  high,  and  banners  bright  unroll'd, 
And  pennons  stream  and  sabres  gleam  beneath  the  sun  like  gold ; 
Across  the  sounding  plain  our  horse  with  stamping  hoofs  they  go, — 
See  where  they  broke  through  flame  and  srnoke  like  lightning  on  the  foe  ! 

We  care  not  for  their  trenches,  leap  light  their  bulwarks  o'er, 

Each  bayonet  is  gleaming  wet,  red  with  imperial  gore, — 

Sheer  through  their  columns  crashing  goes  our  cannons'  hurtling  levin, 

Like  chaff  they  fly,  when  bursts  on  high  the  whirlwind  blast  of  heaven ! 

Vain,  vain  their  Flemish  infantry,  their  Croats'  thirsty  spears, — 
In  vain,  in  vain  led  Wallenstein  his  steel-clad  cuirassiers, — 
We  Swedes  count  life  but  little  worth  in  the  battle's  stormy  hour, 
As  meets  the  rock  the  tempest-shock  we  met  the  fiery  shower. 

Nor  quail'd  our  northern  bosoms,  nor  shook  our  iron  rank, 
When  Pappenheim  with  spur  of  flame  came  thundering  on  our  flank; 
Firm  stood  our  Scottish  legions,  stout  Weimar's  columns  stood, 
And  gave  like  men  their  blows  again,  and  paid  them  blood  for  blood. 

Remember  Magdeburg's  foul  sack  and  Isolani's  sword, 

Their  fierce  dragoons  and  wild  Walloons,  and  Tilly's  cruel  word; 

Remember  Leipsic's  gory  field,  and  our  battle's  gloomy  swell, 

When  their  blood  like  rain  dash'd  o'er  the  plai  n,  paid  the  crimson  reckoning  well ! 

Once  more,  once  more, — the  king  the  first, — he  ever  leads  the  way, — 
On  every  mane  flies  loose  the  rein, — what  slave  behind  would  stay  ! 
Heavens !  how  we  bore  them  through  and  through,  while  wildly  o'er  the  slain 
With  headlong  speed  the  unmaster'd  steed  swept  through  the  dinted  plain ! 


38  THE    BALLAD    OF    LUTZEN. 

And  many  a  stark  old  warrior,  and  youths  with  locks  of  gold, 

As  they  reel  before  our  steel,  to  the  dust  alike  are  roll'd; 

Rough  greeting  theirs,  I  trow,  who  chance  that  trampling  troop  to  meet, — 

Where  it  dashes,  how  like  ashes  they  are  trod  beneath  our  feet ! 

Now  joy  to  Luther's  churches  through  the  borders  of  Almain! 
It  is  the  Lord,  whose  vengeful  sword  has  cleft  the  tyrant's  chain ! 
Let  Rome  upon  her  sevenfold  hills  bewail  her  children's  trust, 
For  ever  broke  her  bloody  yoke,  and  her  idols  bite  the  dust. 

But  where  is  he,  Gustavus,  the  Lion  of  the  North ! 

The  best  and  aye  the  bravest,  from  battle's  cloud  came  forth  ! 

Dead, — dead, — beneath  the  clanging  hoof,  the  bulwark  of  our  faith, — 

Oh,  dear  will  be  the  victory,  that's  bought  with  such  a  death  ! 

One  true  young  bosom  only  there  of  all  his  gallant  ring, — 
Oh,  human  pride  !  "  Alas,"  he  cried,  "  this  morn  I  was  a  king  !" 
So  pass'd  the  noblest  heart  away  that  beat  beneath  the  sun, — 
Thus  went  the  fray  on  Lutzen's  day,  and  thus  the  field  was  won. 

GEORGE   LUNT 


"Jesus   iUc|3t." 

John  xi.  35. 

Draw  near,  ye  weary,  bowed,  and  broken-hearted, 

Ye  onward  travellers  to  a  peaceful  bourne ; 
Ye,  from  whose  path  the  light  hath  all  departed, 

Ye,  who  are  left  in  solitude  to  mourn; 
Though  o'er  your  spirits  hath  the  storm-cloud  swept, 
Sacred  are  sorrow's  tears,  since  "Jesus  wept." 

The  bright  and  spotless  Heir  of  endless  glory, 
Wept  o'er  the  woes  of  those  He  came  to  save ; 

And  angels  wondered  when  they  heard  the  story, 
That  He  who  conquered  death,  wept  o'er  the  grave ; 

For  'twas  not  when  his  lonely  watch  He  kept 

In  dark  Gethsemane,  that  "Jesus  wept." 

But  with  the  friends  He  loved,  whose  hope  had  perished, 
The  Saviour  stood,  while  through  his  bosom  rushed 

A  tide  of  sympathy  for  those  He  cherished, 

And  from  his  eyes  the  burning  tear-drops  gushed, 

And  bending  o'er  the  tomb  where  Lazarus  slept, 

In  agony  of  spirit,  "Jesus  wept." 

Lo  !  Jesus'  power  the  sleep  of  death  hath  broken, 
And  wiped  the  tear  from  sorrow's  drooping  eye ! 

Look  up,  ye  mourners,  hear  what  he  hath  spoken, — 
"He  that  believes  on  me  shall  never  die." 

Through  faith  and  love  your  spirits  shall  be  kept; 

Hope  brighter  grew  on  earth  when  "Jesus  wept." 

MRS.    ST.    LEON    LOU: 

(39) 


21  Sctcreb  UHelobg. 


If  yon  bright  stars  which  gem  the  night 

Be  each  a  blissful  dwelling  sphere, 
Where  kindred  spirits  reunite, 

Whom  death  has  torn  asunder  here; 
How  sweet  it  were  at  once  to  die, 

And  leave  this  blighted  orb  afar — 
Mixed  soul  with  soul,  to  cleave  the  sky, 

And  soar  away  from  star  to  star. 

But,  0  !  how  dark,  how  drear,  how  lone 

Would  seem  the  brightest  world  of  bliss, 
If,  wandering  through  each  radiant  one, 

We  fail'd  to  find  the  loved  of  this ! 
If  there  no  more  the  tie   should  twine, 

Which  death's  cold  hand  alone  can  sever, 
Ah !  then  these  stars  in  mockery  shine, 

More  hateful,  as  they  shine  forever. 

It  cannot  be  !  each  hope  and  fear 

That  lights  the  eye  or  clouds  the  brow, 
Proclaims  there  is  a  happier  sphere 

Than  this  bleak  world  that  holds  us  now! 
There  is  a  voice  which  sorrow  hears, 

When  heaviest  weighs  life's  galling  chain  ; 
'Tis  heaven  that  whispers,  "  Dry  thy  tears  : 

The  pure  in  heart  shall  meet  again  !" 

"W.  LEQGETT. 

(40) 


Sl)e  drucifeton. 


BOUND  upon  the  accursed  tree, 
Faint  and  bleeding- — who  is  He1? 
By  the  eyes  so  pale  and  dim, 
Streaming  blood,  and  writhing  limb. 
By  the  flesh  with  scourges  torn, 
By  the  crown  of  twisted  thorn, 
By  the  side  so  deeply  pierced, 
By  the  baffled,  burning  thirst, 
By  the  drooping,  death-dew'd  brow, 
Son  of  Man !  'tis  Thou,  'tis  Thou ! 

Bound  upon  the  accursed  tree, 
Dread  and  awful — who  is  He] 
By  the  sun  at  noon-day  pale, 
Shivering  rocks,  and  rending  veil ; 
By  earth  that  trembles  at  his  doom, 
By  yonder  saints  who  burst  their  tomb. 
By  Eden,  promised  ere  he  died 
To  the  felon  at  his  side, 
Lord  !  our  suppliant  knees  we  bow, 
Son  of  God  !  'tis  Thou,  'tis  Thou ! 

Bound  upon  the  accursed  tree, 
Sad  and  dying — who  is  He? 
By  the  last  and  bitter  cry, 
The  ghost  given  up  in  agony ; 
By  the  lifeless  body  laid 
In  the  chambers  of  the  dead  ; 


42  THE    CRUCIFIXION. 

By  the  mourners  come  to  weep 
Where  the  bones  of  Jesus  sleep : 
Crucified !  we  know  thee  now — 
Son  of  Man !  'tis  Thou,  'tis  Thou ! 

Bound  upon  the  accursed  tree, 
Dread  and  awful — who  is  He? 
By  the  prayer  for  them  that  slew — 
"  Lord !  they  know  not  what  they  do !" 
By  the  spoil'd  and  empty  grave, 
By  the  souls  he  died  to  save, 
By  the  conquest  he  hath  won, 
By  the  saints  before  his  throne, 
By  the  rainbow  round  his  brow, 
Son  of  God  !  'tis  Thou,  'tis  Thou! 


(Hl)ampicms  of  tlje  Srutl). 

Dull  thunders  moan  around  the  Temple  rock, 

And  deep  in  hollow  caves,  far  underneath, 
The  lonely  watchman  feels  the  sullen  shock, 

His  footsteps  timing  as  the  low  winds  breathe; 
Hark!  from  the  Shrine  is  asked,  What  steadfast  heart 
Dares  in  the  storm  go  forth?  Who  takes  the  Almighty's  part? 

And  with  a  bold  gleam  flush'd,  full  many  a  brow 
Is  raised  to  say,  "  Behold  me,  Lord,  and  send." 

But  ere  the  words  be  breathed,  some  broken  vow 
Remember'd,  ties  the  tongue;  and  sadly  blend 

With  faith's  pure  incense,  clouds  of  conscience  dim, 
And  faltering  tones  of  guilt  mar  the  Confessor's  hymn. 


Illorninq  finmn. 


Soft  slumbers  now  mine  eyes  forsake, 
My  powers  are  all  renewed; 

May  my  freed  spirit  too  awake, 

With  heavenly  strength  endued. 

Thou  silent  murderer,  Sloth,  no  more 
My  mind  imprisoned  keep; 

Nor  let  me  waste  another  hour 
With  thee,  thou  felon,  Sleep. 

Think,  0  my  soul,  could  dying  men 
One  lavished  hour  retrieve, 

Though  spent  in  tears,  and  passed  in  pain, 
What  treasures  would  they  give! 

But  seas  of  pearls,  and  mines  of  gold, 

Were  offered  then  in  vain ; 
Their  pearl  of  countless  price  is  sold, 

And  where's  the  promised  gain  ? 

Lord,  when  thy  day  of  dread  account 
For  squandered  hours  shall  come, 

Oh  !  let  not  this  increase  th'  amount, 
And  swell  the  former  sum. 

Teach  me  in  health  such  good  to  prize, 

I  dying  shall  esteem  ; 
And  every  pleasure  to  despise 

I  then  shall  worthless  deem. 

For  all  thy  wondrous  mercies  past 
My  grateful  voice  I  '11  raise, 

While  thus  I  quit  my  bed  of  rest, 
Creation's  Lord  to  praise. 

HASSA.H  MORZ. 


(43) 


®l)e  permit. 


At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still, 
And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness  prove, 
When  naught  hut  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
And  naught  hut  the  nightingale's  song  in  the  grove : 
'T  was  then,  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar, 
A  hermit  his  song  of  the  night  thus  began; 
No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at  war, 
He  thought  as  a  sage,  while  he  felt  as  a  man. 

"Ah  !  why  thus  abandoned  to  darkness  and  wo  1 
Why  thus,  lonely  Philomel,  flows  thy  sad  strain? 
For  spring  shall  return  and  a  lover  bestow, 
And  thy  bosom  no  trace  of  misfortune  retain. 
Yet  if  pity  inspire  thee,  ah,  cease  not  thy  lay  ; 
Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls  thee  to  mourn ; 
O  soothe  him  whose  pleasures  like  thine  pass  away — 
Full  quickly  they  pass,  but  they  never  return. 

"  Now  gliding  remote,  on  the  verge  of  the  sky, 
The  moon,  half  extinguished,  her  crescent  displays ; 
But  lately  I  marked,  when  majestic  on  high 
She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her  blaze. 
Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness  pursue 
The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendour  again; 
But  man's  faded  glory  no  change  shall  renew. 
Ah,  fool !  to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain  ! 


(44) 


/  THE    II1KM1T.  45 

"'Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more: 
I  mourn,  but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn  not  for  you, 
For  morn  is  approaching  your  charms  to  restore, 
Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance  and  glittering  with  dew. 
Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I  mourn, — 
Kind  nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save; 
But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  mouldering  urn  ! 
O,  when  shall  it  dawn  on  the  night  of  the  grave ! 

"'Twas  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science  betrayed, 

That  leads  to  bewilder,  and  dazzles  to  blind ; 

My  thoughts  wont  to  roam  from  shade  onward  to  shade, 

Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind. 

4  O  pity,  great  Father  of  Light,'  then  I  cried, 

'Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wander  from  thee! 

Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  I  relinquish  my  pride  : 

From  doubt  and  from  darkness  thou  only  canst  free.' 

"  And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying  away  ; 

No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn  : 

So  breaks  on  the  traveller  faint  and  astray, 

The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of  morn. 

See  Truth,  Love,  and  Mercy,  in  triumph  descending, 

And  nature  all  glowing  in  Eden's  first  bloom! 

On  the  cold  cheek  of  death,  smiles  and  roses  are  blending, 

And  beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the  tomb." 

JAMES    BEATTIE. 


Cjope. 


Hope  sets  the  stamp  of  vanity  on  all 

That  men  have  deemed  substantial  since  the  fall, 

Yet  has  the  wondrous  virtue  to  educe 

From  emptiness  itself  a  real  use ; 

And  while  she  takes,  as  at  a  father's  hand, 

What  health  and  sober  appetite  demand, 

From  fading  good  derives,  with  chemic  art, 

That  lasting  happiness,  a  thankful  heart. 

Hope,  with  uplifted  foot,  set  free  from  earth, 

Pants  for  the  place  of  her  ethereal  birth, 

On  steady  wings  sails  through  th'  immense  abyss, 

Plucks  amaranthine  joys  from  bowers  of  bliss, 

And  crowns  the  soul,  while  yet  a  mourner  here, 

With  wreaths  like  those  triumphant  spirits  wear. 

Hope,  as  an  anchor  firm  and  sure,  holds  fast 

The  Christian  vessel,  and  defies  the  blast. 

Hope  !  nothing  else  can  nourish  and  secure 

His  newborn  virtues,  and  preserve  him  pure. 

Hope !  let  the  wretch,  once  conscious  of  the  joy, 

Whom  now  despairing  agonies  destroy, 

Speak,  for  he  can,  and  none  so  well  as  he, 

What  treasures  centre,  what  delights,  in  thee. 

Had  he  the  gems,  the  spices,  and  the  land 

That  boasts  the  treasure,  all  at  his  command ; 

The  fragrant  grove,  th'  inestimable  mine, 

Were  light,  when  viewed  against  one  smile  of  thine. 

"TO".    OOAVPER. 


(46) 


(§appmes3. 

Happiness  is  of  the  heart,  and  it  is  the  mind  that  give!  itl  tone  and  colouring  to  nature 

There  is  a  spell  in  every  flower — 

A  sweetness  in  each  spray, 
And  every  simple  bird  lias  power 

To  please  me  with  its  lay  ! 

And  there  is  music  on  each  breeze 

That  sports  along  the  glade; 
The  crystal  dew-drops  on  the  trees 

Are  gems,  by  Fancy  made. 

There's  gladness  too  in  every  thing, 

And  beauty  over  all, 
For  everywhere  comes  on,  with  Spring 

A  charm  which  cannot  pall ! 

And  I ! — my  heart  is  full  of  joy, 

And  gratitude  is  there, 
That  He,  who  might  my  life  destroy, 

Has  yet  vouchsafed  to  spare. 

The  friends  I  once  condemn'd,  are  now 

Affectionate  and  true ; 
I  wept  a  pledged  one's  broken  vow — 

But  he  proves  faithful  too. 

And  now  there  is  a  happiness 

In  every  thing  I  see, 
Which  bids  my  soul  rise  up  and  bless 

The  God  who  blesses  me. 

ANNA    PEYRE    DINNIE3. 

(47) 


Stye  JMectt  of  Stsera. 


Strike  !  strike  !  the  loud  harp  to  the  praise  of  the  Lord, 
And  on  cymbals  of  gladness  his  glory  record ! 
Exult !  for  the  sceptre  of  Jabin  is  broke, 
And  Israel  is  freed  from  the  Canaanites'  yoke. 

O'er  Tabor's  wide  plains,  on  Megiddo's  green  banks, 
The  Canaanite  marshall'd  his  numberless  ranks; 
Like  the  fiend  of  the  desert,  in  whirlwinds  of  flame 
Breathing  death  and  destruction  to  Israel,  they  came. 

When  the  shrieks  of  the  night-tempest,  echoing  around, 
Through  the  hundred  dark  caves  of  the  mountain  resound ; 
Hast  thou  seen  the  blue  lightning,  flash  darting  on  flash? 
Hast  thou  heard  the  deep  thunder,  crash  bursting  on  crash  1 

As  brightly  the  Canaanites'  helmets  and  shields 
In  the  blaze  of  the  morning  illumined  the  fields — 
As  loudly  the  coursers  of  Sisera  pranced, 
When  his  chariots  to  combat  with  Israel  advanced. 

But,  where  are  the  helmets,  and  where  are  the  shields, 
Whose  blaze  in  the  morning  illumined  the  fields  1 
And  where  are  the  steeds  that  so  haughtily  pranced, 
When  Sisera's  chariots  to  combat  advanced  ] 


(48) 


THE    DEFEAT   OF   SHEBA.  19 

Their  splendour  is  dinim'd  in  the  blood  of  the  slain — 
Tiny  are  rolling  in  Kishon's  red  tide  to  the  main — 
For  the  feast  of  the  vulture  in  Taarack  is  spread, 
And  the  kings  of  Canaan  are  strew'd  with  the  dead. 

The  mother  of  Sisera  looks  out  on  high, 

Prom  the  halls  of  her  palace,  for  evening  is  nigh  : 

And  the  wine-cup  is  brirum'd,  and  the  bright  torches  burn — 

And  the  banquet  is  piled,  for  the  chieftain's  return. 

She  cries  to  her  maidens — "  Why  comes  not  my  son? 
Is  the  combat  not  o'er,  and  the  battle  not  won  ] 
The  steeds  of  Canaan  are  many  and  strong, 
Why  tarry  the  wheels  of  his  chariot  so  long1?" 

She  saith  in  her  heart — yea,  her  wise  maidens  say — 
"He  taketh  the  spoil — he  divideth  the  prey — 
He  seizeth  the  garment  of  glittering  dyes, 
And  maketh  the  daughters  of  beauty  his  prize  !" 

But  Sisera's  mother  sball  view  him  no  more; 
With  the  warriors  of  Hazor  be  sleeps  in  his  gore — 
And  the  bear  and  tbe  lion  his  coursers  consume — 
And  the  beak  of  the  eagle  is  digging  his  tomb. 

And  the  owl  and  the  raven  are  flapping  their  wings — 
And  their  death-song  is  heard  in  the  chambers  of  kings : 
For  the  sword  of  the  Lord  and  of  Israel  lowers 
O'er  Sisera's  palace,  and  Jabin's  proud  towers. 

J.    O'CALLAOHAN. 


21  Dirge. 


" Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust!" 
Here  the  evil  and  the  just, 
Here  the  youthful  and  the  old, 
Here  the  fearful  and  the  bold, 
Here  the  matron  and  the  maid, 
In  one  silent  bed  are  laid ; 
Here  the  vassal  and  the  king-, 
Side  by  side  lie  withering; 
Here  the  sword  and  sceptre  rust — 
"Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust!" 


Age  on  age  shall  roll  along, 
O'er  this  pale  and  mighty  throng : 
Those  that  wept  them,  those  that  weep, 
All  shall  with  these  sleepers  sleep. 
Brothers,  sisters  of  the  worm, 
Summer's  sun,  or  winter's  storm, 
Song  of  peace  or  battle's  roar, 
Ne'er  shall  break  their  slumbers  more ; 
Death  shall  keep  his  sullen  trust — 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust!" 


(50) 


A    DIRGE.  51 


But  a  day  is  coming  I 
Earth,  thy  mightiest  and  thy  last, 
It  shall  come  in  u  ai  and  wonder, 
Heralded  by  tramp  and  thnnder; 

It  shall  come  in  strife  and  toil, 
It  shall  come  in  blood  and  spoil, 
It  shall  come  in  empires'  groans, 
Burning  temples,  trampled  thrones; 
Then,  ambition,  rue  thy  1       . 
••  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust !*' 

Then  shall  come  the  judgment  sign; 
In  the  east  the  King  shall  shine; 
Flashing  from  heaven's  golden  gate, 
Thousand  thousands  round  his  state, 
Spirits  with  the  crown  and  plume; 
Tremble  then,  thou  sullen  tomb  ! 
Heaven  shall  open  on  our  sight, 
Earth  be  turn'd  to  living  light, 
Kingdoms  of  the  ransom'd  just — 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust!" 

Then  shall,  gorgeous  as  a  gem, 
Shine  thy  mount,  Jerusalem  ; 
Then  shall  in  the  desert  rise 
Fruits  of  more  than  paradise; 
Earth  by  angel  feet  be  trod, 
One  great  garden  of  her  God ; 
Till  are  dried  the  martyrs'  tears, 
Through  a  glorious  thousand  years. 
Now  in  hope  of  him  we  trust — 
11  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust !" 


(Encrgg  in  ^iitoersttrj. 


Onward  !     Hath  earth's  ceaseless  change 

Trampled  on  thy  heart  1 
Faint  not,  for  that  restless  range 

Soon  will  heal  the  smart. 
Trust  the  future ;  time  will  pjove 
Earth  hath  stronger,  truer  love. 

Bless  thy  God,  the  heart  is  not 

An  abandoned  urn, 
Where,  all  lonely  and  forgot, 

Dust  and  ashes  mourn ; 
Bless  Him,  that  his  mercy  brings 
Joy  from  out  its  withered  things. 

Onward,  for  the  truths  of  God  ! 

Onward,  for  the  right ! 
Firmly  let  the  field  be  trod, 

In  life's  coming  fight; 
Heaven's  own  hand  will  lead  thee  on, 
Guard  thee  till  thy  task  is  done ! 

Then  will  brighter,  sweeter  flowers 

Blossom  round  thy  way, 
Than  e'er  sprung  in  Hope's  glad  bowers, 

In  thine  early  day ; 
And  the  rolling  years  shall  bring 
Strength  and  healing  on  their  wing. 

rtJELLA   J.    CASS. 

(52) 


©n  tljc  Pccitl)  of  a  Uoung  9nxl 


She  hath  gone  in  the  spring-time  of  life, 

Ere  her  sky  had  been  dimm'd  by  a  cloud, 
While  her  heart  with  the  rapture  of  love  was  yet  rife, 

And  the  hopes  of  her  youth  were  unbow'd — 
From  the  lovely,  who  loved  her  too  well ; 

From  the  heart  that  had  grown  to  her  own ; 
From  the  sorrow  which  late  o'er  her  young  spirit  fell, 

Like  a  dream  of  the  night  she  hath  flown ; 
And  the  earth  hath  received  to  its  bosom  its  trust — 
Ashes  to  ashes,  and  dust  unto  dust. 

The  spring,  in  its  loveliness  dress'd, 

Will  return  with  its  music-wing'd  hours, 
And,  kiss'd  by  the  breath  of  the  sweet  south-west, 

The  buds  shall  burst  out  in  flowers ; 
And  the  flowers  her  grave-sod  above, 

Though  the  sleeper  beneath  recks  it  not, 
Shall  thickly  be  strown  by  the  hand  of  Love, 

To  cover  with  beauty  the  spot — 
Meet  emblems  are  they  of  the  pure  one  and  bright, 
Who  faded  and  fell  with  so  early  a  blight. 

Ay.  the  spring  will  return — but  the  blossom 
That  bloom'd  in  our  presence  the  sweetest, 

By  the  spoiler  is  borne  from  the  cherishing  bosom, 
The  loveliest  of  all  and  the  fleetest! 


54  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  GIRL. 

The  music  of  stream  and  of  bird, 

Shall  come  back  when  the  winter  is  o'er; 
But  the  voice  that  was  dearest  to  us  shall  be  heard 

In  our  desolate  chambers  no  more ! 
The  sunlight  of  May  on  the  waters  shall  quiver — 
The  light  of  her  eye  hath  departed  for  ever! 

As  the  bird  to  its  sheltering  nest, 

When  the  storm  on  the  hills  is  abroad, 
So  her  spirit  hath  flown  from  this  world  of  unrest 

To  repose  on  the  bosom  of  God ! 
Where  the  sorrows  of  earth  never  more 

May  fling  o'er  its  brightness  a  stain; 
Where,  in  rapture  and  love,  it  shall  ever  adore, 

With  a  gladness  unmingled  with  pain; 
And  its  thirst  shall  be  slaked  by  the  waters  which  spring, 
Like  a  river  of  light,  from  the  throne  of  the  King  ! 

Fhere  is  weeping  on  earth  for  the  lost ! 

There  is  bowing  in  grief  to  the  ground ! 
But  rejoicing  and  praise  'mid  the  sanctified  host, 
,1      For  a  spirit  in  paradise  found  ! 

Though  brightness  hath  pass'd  from  the  earth, 

Yet  a  star  is  newborn  in  the  sky, 
And  a  soul  hath  gone  home  to  the  land  of  its  birth, 

Where  are  pleasures  and  fulness  of  joy! 
And  a  new  harp  is  strung,  and  a  new  song  is  given 
To  the  breezes  that  float  o'er  the  gardens  of  heaven ! 

WILLIAM  H.   BURI.EIGH. 


JJrancr  for  tljc  Spirit. 


O  for  the  happy  hour 

When  God  will  hear  our  cry, 

And  send,  with  a  reviving  power, 
His  Spirit  from  on  high  ! 

We  meet,  we  sing,  we  pray, 

We  listen  to  the  word, 
In  vain — we  see  no  cheering  ray, 

No  cheering  voice  is  heard. 

Our  prayers  are  faint  and  dull, 

And  languid  all  our  songs, 
Where  once  with  joy  our  hearts  were  full, 

And  rapture  tuned  our  tongues. 

While  many  crowd  thy  house, 

How  few  around  thy  board 
Meet  to  record  their  solemn  vows. 

And  bless  thee  as  their  Lord. 

Thou,  Thou  alone  canst  give 

Thy  Gospel  sure  success, 
And  bid  the  dying  sinner  live 

Anew  in  holiness. 

Come,  with  thy  power  divine, 

Spirit  of  life  and  love ; 
Then  shall  our  people  all  be  thine, 

Our  church  like  that  above. 

BETHUNE. 


(55) 


Stye  £)our  of  Prater. 


CHILD,  amidst  the  flowers  at  play, 
While  the  red  light  fades  away; 
Mother,  with  thine  earnest  eye 
Ever  following-  silently; 
Father,  by  the  breeze  of  eve 
Call'd  thy  harvest-work  to  leave; 
Pray  ! — ere  yet  the  dark  hours  be, 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee ! 

Traveller,  in  the  stranger's  land 
Far  from  thine  own  household  band; 
Mourner,  haunted  by  the  tone 
Of  a  voice  from  this  world  gone ; 
Captive,  in  whose  narrow  cell 
Sunshine  hath  not  leave  to  dwell ; 
Sailor,  on  the  darkening  sea — 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee ! 

Warrior,  that  from  battle  won 
Breathest  now  at  set  of  sun ! 
Woman,  o'er  the  lowly  slain 
Weeping  on  his  burial  plain: 
Ye  that  triumph,  ye  that  sigh, 
Kindred  by  one  holy  tie, 
Heaven's  first  star  alike  ye  see — 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee! 


MRS.  HE  HANS. 


(56) 


dotDpcr's  (Prase. 


1  will  invite  thee,  from  thy  envious  herse 

To  rise,  and  'bout  the  world  thy  beams  to  spread 

That  we  may  see  there  's  brightnesse  in  the  dead. 

Habington. 


It  is  a  place  where  poets  crown'd  may  feel  the  heart 's  decaying — 
It  is  a  place  where  happy  saints  may  weep  amid  their  praying — 
Yet  let  the  grief  and  humbleness  as  low  as  silence  languish ; 
Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm  to  whom  she  gave  her  anguish. 

0  poets!  from  a  maniac's  tongue  was  pour'd  the  deathless  singing! 
O  Christians  !  at  your  cross  of  hope  a  hopeless  hand  was  clinging! 
0  men !  this  man  in  brotherhood,  your  weary  paths  beguiling, 
Groan'd  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace,  and  died  while  ye  were  smiling' 

And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read  through  dimming  tears  his  story — 
How  discord  on  the  music  fell,  and  darkness  on  the  glory — 
And  how,  when,  one  by  one,  sweet  sounds  and  wandering  lights  departed, 
He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face,  because  so  broken-hearted. 

He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify  the  poet's  high  vocation, 

And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down  in  meeker  adoration: 

Nor  ever  shall  he  be  in  praise  by  wise  or  good  forsaken ; 

Named  softly,  as  the  household  name  of  one  whom  God  hath  taken ! 

With  sadness  that  is  calm,  not  gloom,  I  learn  to  think  upon  hirn  ; 
With  meekness  that  is  gratefulness,  on  God,  whose  heaven  hath  won  hiro- 
Who  suffer'd  once  the  madness-cloud  towards  1 1  is  love  to  blind  him; 
But  gently  led  the  blind  along,  where  breath  and  bird  could  find  him  ; 


58 


And  wrought  within  his  shatter'd  brain  such  quick  poetic  senses, 
As  hills  have  language  for,  and  stars  harmonious  influences ! 
The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass  his  own  did  calmly  number; 
And  silent  shadow  from  the  trees  fell  o'er  him  like  a  slumber. 


The  very  world,  by  God's  constraint,  from  falsehood's  chill  removing, 
Its  women  and  its  men  became  beside  him  true  and  loving! — 
And  timid  hares  were  drawn  from  woods  to  share  his  house-caresses, 
Uplooking  to  his  human  eyes,  with  sylvan  tendernesses. 

But  while  in  blindness  he  remain'd,  unconscious  of  the  guiding, 
And  things  provided  came  without  the  sweet  sense  of  providing, 
He  testified  this  solemn  truth,  though  phrensy  desolated, — 
Nor  man,  nor  nature  satisfy  whom  only  God  created! 

Like  a  sick  child,  that  knoweth  not  his  mother  while  she  blesses, 

And  droppeth  on  his  burning  brow  the  coolness  of  her  kisses ; 

That  turns  his  fever'd  eyes  around — "  My  mother !  where 's  my  mother  ?"- 

As  if  such  tender  words  and  looks  could  come  from  any  other! 

The  fever  gone,  with  leaps  of  heart  he  sees  her  bending  o'er  him ; 
Her  face  all  pale  from  watchful  love,  the  unweary  love  she  bore  him — 
Thus,  woke  the  poet  from  the  dream  his  life's  long  fever  gave  him, 
Beneath  those  deep  pathetic  eyes  which  closed  in  death  to  save  him  ! 

Thus!  oh,  not  thus!  no  type  of  earth  could  image  that  awaking, 
Wherein  he  scarcely  heard  the  chant  of  seraphs  round  him  breaking — 
Or  felt  the  new  immortal  throb  of  soul  from  body  parted ; 
But  felt  those  eyes  alone,  and  knew  "  my  Saviour  not  deserted  !" 

Deserted  !  who  hath  dreamt  that  when  the  cross  in  darkness  rested, 
Upon  the  victim's  hidden  face  no  love  was  manifested  1 
What  frantic  hands  outstretch'd  have  e'er  the  atoning  drops  averted — 
What  tears  have  wash'd  them  from  the  soul — that  one  should  be  deserted  ? 


( -iiw  fee's  seats. 

ted!  God  could  separate  firom  His  o*  n  essence  rat:. 
And  Adam's  sins  nose  swept  between  the  righteous  Son  end  Father— 

Yes  :  once,  Immanuel's  orphan'd  cry  his  universe  hath  shaken- 
It  went  up  single,  echoless.  ••  My  Cod,  I  am  forsaken!" 

It  went  up  from  the  Holy's  lips  amid  his  lost  creation, 

That  of  the  lost,  no  son  should  use  those  words  of  desolation; 

That  earth's  worst  phrensies,  marring  hope,  should  mar  not  hope's  fruition  : 

And  I,  on  Cowper's  grave,  should  see  his  rapture,  in  a  vision! 

_3ETH  B.  BARRETT. 


ibrgiacncss. 


O  God  !  my  sins  are  manifold,  against  my  life  they  cry. 

And  all  my  guilty  deeds  foregone,  up  to  Thy  temple  fly  ; 

Wilt  thou  release  my  tTembling  soul,  that  to  despair  is  driven? 

"  Foro-ive!"  a  blessed  voice  replied,  "and  thou  shalt  be  forgiven!" 

My  foemen,  Lord  !  are  fierce  and  fell,  they  spurn  me  in  their  pride, 

They  render  evil  for  my  good,  my  patience  they  deride; 

Arise.  0  King;  and  be  the  proud  to  righteous  ruin  driven! 

"  Forgive !"  an  awful  answer  came,  "  as  thou  wouldst  be  forgiven !" 

-   ren  times,  O  Lord!  I  pardon'd  them,  seven  times  they  sinn'd  again: 
They  practise  still  to  work  me  wo,  they  triumph  in  my  pain; 
But  let  them  dread  my  vengeance  now,  to  just  resentment  driven ! 
••  Forgive  !"  the  voice  of  thunder  spake,  "  or  never  be  forgiven  !" 

BISHOP  EEBER 


71  fijgmn  on  tlje  Seasons. 


These  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolling  )Tear 
Is  full  of  Thee.     Forth  in  the  pleasing  Spring 
Thy  beauty  walks,  thy  tenderness  and  love. 
Wide  flush  the  fields  :  the  softening  air  is  balm, 
And  every  sense  and  every  heart  is  joy. 
Then  comes  thy  glory  in  the  Summer  months, 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent.     Then  thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year ; 
And  oft  thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks, 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve, 
By  brooks  and  groves,  and  hollow  whispering  gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  Autumn  unconfined, 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  live. 
In  Winter,  awful  Thou  !  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  Thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  rolled, 
Majestic  darkness  !  on  the  whirlwind's  wing 
Riding  sublime,  thou  bidd'st  the  world  adore, 
And  humblest  nature  with  thy  northern  blast. 
Mysterious  round  !  what  skill,  what  force  divine, 
Deep-felt,  in  these  appear  !  a  simple  train, 
Yet  so  delightful,  mixed  with  such  kind  art, 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined  ! 
Shade  unperceived  so  soft'ning  into  shade, 
And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole, 
That  as  they  still  succeed  they  ravish  still. 


(CO) 


A    HYMN    ON    THE    SEASONS.  61 

But  wandering  oft  with  brute  unconscioni  • 

Man  marks  not  Thee,  marks  not  the  mighty  hand 

That  ever  busy  wheels  the  silent  Bphett  I ; 

Works  in  the  secret  deep;  shoots  teeming  thence 

The  fair  profusion  that  o'erspreads  the  Spring  ; 

Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day  ; 

Feeds  every  creature;  hurls  the  tempest  forth  ; 

And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  revolves, 

With  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of  life. 

Nature,  attend  !  join  every  living  soul 

Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky, 

In  adoration  join  :  and  ardent  raise 

One  general  song!     To  Him,  ye  vocal  gales, 

Breathe  soft,  whose  spirit  in  your  freshness  breathes. 

Oh  !  talk  of  Him  in  solitary  glooms, 

Where  o'er  the  rock  the  scarcely  waving  pine 

Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a  religious  awe. 

And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar, 

Who  shake  th'  astonished  world,  lift  high  to  heaven 

Th'  impetuous  song,  and  say  from  whom  you  rage. 

His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trembling  rills, 

And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 

Ye  headlong  torrents,  rapid  and  profound  ; 

Ye  softer  floods,  that  lead  the  humid  maze 

Along  the  vale  ;  and  thou,  majestic  main, 

A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself, 

Sound  his  stupendous  praise,  whose  greater  voice 

Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings  fall. 

Soft  roll  your  incense,  herbs,  and  fruits,  and  flowers, 

In  mingled  clouds  to  Him,  whose  sun  exalts, 

Whose  breath  perfumes  you,  and  whose  pencil  paints. 

Ye  forests,  bend,  ye  harvests,  wave  to  Him  ! 

Breathe  your  still  song  into  the  reaper's  heart, 

As  home  he  goes  beneath  the  joyous  moon. 

Ye  that  keep  watch  in  heaven,  as  earth  asleep 

Unconscious  lies,  effuse  your  mildest  beams, 

Ye  constellations,  while  your  angels  strike, 


62  A    HYMN    ON    THE    SEASONS. 

Amid  the  spangled  sky,  the  silver  lyre. 

Great  source  of  day !  best  image  here  below 

Of  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide, 

From  world  to  world,  the  vital  ocean  round, 

On  nature  write  with  every  beam  his  praise. 

The  thunder  rolls !  be  hushed  the  prostrate  world, 

While  cloud  to  cloud  returns  the  solemn  hymn. 

Bleat  out  afresh,  ye  hills ;  ye  mossy  rocks, 

Retain  the  sound :  the  broad  responsive  low, 

Ye  valleys,  raise  :  for  the  Great  Shepherd  reigns ; 

And  his  unsuffering  kingdom  yet  will  come. 

Ye  woodlands,  all  awake  !  a  boundless  song 

Bursts  from  the  groves  !  and  when  the  restless  day, 

Expiring,  lays  the  warbling  world  asleep, 

Sweetest  of  birds  !  sweet  Philomela,  charm 

The  listening  shades,  and  teach  the  night  his  praise. 

Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles, 

At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue  of  all, 

Crown  the  great  hymn  !  in  swarming  cities  vast 

Assembled  men  to  the  deep  organ  join 

The  long  resounding  voice,  oft  breaking  clear 

At  solemn  pauses  through  the  swelling  base; 

And,  as  each  mingling  flame  increases,  each 

In  one  united  ardour  rise  to  heaven. 

Or  if  you  rather  choose  the  rural  shade, 

And  find  a  fane  in  every  sacred  grove, 

There  let  the  shepherd's  flute,  the  virgin's  lay, 

The  prompting  seraph,  and  the  poet's  lyre, 

Still  sing  the  God  of  Seasons  as  they  roll. 

For  me — when  I  forget  the  darling  theme, 

Whether  the  blossom  blows,  the  Summer  ray 

Russets  the  plain,  inspiring  Autumn  gleams, 

Or  Winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east, 

Be  my  tongue  mute,  my  fancy  paint  no  more, 

And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat ! 

Should  fate  command  me  to  the  farthest  verge 

Of  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barbarous  climes, 


A    HYMN    o.\    THE    BEA80N& 

Rivers  unknown  to  song,  where  first  the  ion 

(iilds  Indian  mountains,  01  hie  Betting  beam 

Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles; — 'tis  naught  to  me, 

Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt 

In  the  wild  waste,  as  in  the  city  full  : 

And  where  He  vital  breathes  there  must  be  joy. 

When  even  at  last  the  solemn  hour  shall  come, 

And  wing  my  mystic  flight  to  future  worlds, 

I  cheerful  will  obey ;  there,  with  new  powers, 

Will  rising  wonders  sing  :  I  cannot  go 

Where  Universal  Love  not  smiles  around, 

Sustaining  all  yon  orbs  and  all  their  suns — 

From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good, 

And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still, 

In  infinite  progression.     But  I  lose 

Myself  in  Him,  in  Light  Ineffable. 

Come,  then,  expressive  Silence,  muse  his  praise. 

JAMES   THOMSON. 


* 


Daniel  in  tl)e  Den  of  Cions. 

Dan.  vi.  18,  22,  24. 

Night  spreads  her  sable  shroud 

O'er  Babylon  the  proud, 
As  o'er  a  silent  city  of  the  dead ; 

Nor  voice  nor  sound  is  heard, 

Save  the  lone  midnight  bird, 
And  the  far  warder's  deep  and  measured  tread. 

There  streams  no  joyous  light 

From  that  pavilion  bright, 
Where  princes  round  the  Lord  of  Asia  throng; — 

Hush'd  is  the  silver  lute, 

The  golden  harp  is  mute — 
Mute  is  the  voice  of  music  and  of  song. 

Pale  solitude  is  there, 

Remorse,  and  gnawing  care; 
Grief  wrings  the  monarch's  heart,  and  dims  his  eye; 

His  word  hath  seal'd  the  doom, 

His  signet  guards  the  tomb ; — 
The  guiltless  prophet  has  gone  forth  to  die. 

He  now  laments,  as  one 

Reft  of  an  only  son, 
Self-tortured,  self-convicted,  self-abhorr'd ; 

But  vain  is  pity  now, 

And  vain  the  threatening  brow; 
No  power  can  change  the  irrevocable  word! 


(64) 


DANIEL    in    mi.    pin    OF    LIONS  (»."> 

"Oh,  fatal,  rash  decree! 

Would  I  had  died  lor  thee, 
My  friend  !   my  brother!   till  thy  doom  was  near, 

I  knew  riot  how  my  heart 

Gave  thee  its  better  part; 
How  dear  thou  wert,  and  oh,  how  justly  dear! 

14 1  loathe  this  empty  state, 

This  pageant  power  I  hate; 
What  is  a  king  who  slays  but  cannot  save  ] 

The  doom  of  instant  death 

Hangs  on  my  slightest  breath  ; 
Thy  will  to  pardon  finds  me  but  a  slave. 

"  Who  shall  control  the  rage, 

Who  the  fell  thirst  assuage, 
Of  prison'd  lions,  ravening  fierce  for  blood  ; 

They  scent  their  prey  from  far, 

As  steeds  the  distant  war; 
And  howl  glad  welcome  to  their  wonted  food. 

"  Oh,  never  more  shall  sleep 

These  aching  eyeballs  steep 
In  tranquil  slumbers ;  never  Peace  divine 

Revisit  this  sad  breast; — 

My  victim  is  at  rest, 
Hut  T,  the  murderer,  when  shall  rest  be  mine? 

"Yet  He  who  quench'd  the  flame, 

Is  He  not  still  the  same  ] 
Thy  God,  not  mine — but  henceforth  mine,  if  now, 

When  help  of  man  is  vain, 

The  foe  He  yet  restrain : 
Nor  God,  nor  man  can  save,  O  Lord,  but  Thou!" 

5 


66  DANIEL    IN    THE    DEN    OF    LIONS. 

Uprose  the  conscious  king: 

He  bade  no  courtier  bring 
His  robe  of  state — no  slaves  his  steps  attend ; 

Alone  he  sought — alone 

To  breathe  his  secret  moan 
O'er  the  death-chamber  of  his  martyr'd  friend. 

Oh,  bitter  was  the  cry 

With  which  the  king  drew  nigh — 
"  Hear  me,  O  prophet,  in  Jehovah's  name ! 

Can  His  almighty  power 

Avail  in  this  dark  hour, 
To  quell  the  lion  as  it  quench'd  the  flame  ? 

"What  means  that  hollow  sound, 

Low  answering  from  the  ground  ] — 
Is  it  the  sated  lions'  stifled  roar] — 

Rejoice,  O  king,  rejoice, 

It  is  a  human  voice; 
The  voice  which  thou  hadst  thought  to  hear  no  more 

"  0  king,  be  peace  divine, 

And  life  eternal,  thine. 
My  God  hath  sent  His  angel,  for  He  knew 

His  servant's  inmost  heart 

Abhorr'd  the  traitor's  part — 
To  thee,  O  king,  as  to  Himself,  most  true!" 

From  Babylon  the  proud 
Xight  roll'd  her  sable  shroud ; — 

But  o'er  the  shouts  that  shook  those  towers  of  pride, 
When  morning  tinged  the  sky, 
Was  heard  one  loud,  wild  cry — 

It  was  the  death-shriek  when  the  guilty  died ! 


THOMAS   DALE. 


&vz  mc  Jlrmour  of  JJroof. 


Give  me  armour  of  proof,  I  must  ride  to  the  plain; 
Give  me  armour  of  proof,  ere  the  trump  sound  again  : 
To  the  halls  of  my  childhood  no  more  am  I  known, 
And  the  nettle  must  rise  where  the  myrtle  hath  blown ! 
Till  the  conflict  is  over,  the  battle  is  past — 
Give  me  armour  of  proof — I  am  true  to  the  last! 

Give  me  armour  of  proof — bring  me  helmet  and  spear; 
A.  way  !  shall  the  warrior's  cheek  own  a  tear! 
Bring  the  steel  of  Milan — 'tis  the  firmest  and  best, 
And  bind  on  my  bosom  its  closely-linked  vest, 
Where  the  head  of  a  loved  one  in  fondness  hath  lain, 
Whose  tears  fell  at  parting-  like  warm  summer  rain ! 

Give  me  armour  of  proof — I  have  torn  from  my  heart 
Each  soft  tie  and  true  that  forbade  me  to  part ; 
Bring  the  sword  of  Damascus,  its  blade  cold  and  bright, 
That  bends  not  in  conflict,  but  gleams  in  the  fight; 
And  stay — let  me  fasten  yon  scarf  on  my  breast, 
Love's  light  pledge  and  true — I  will  answer  the  rest! 

Give  me  armour  of  proof — shall  the  cry  be  in  vain, 
When  to  life's  sternest  conflicts  we  rush  forth  amain  ? 
The  knight  clad  in  armour  the  battle  may  bide; 
But  woe  to  the  heedless  when  bendeth  the  tried  ; 
\nd  woe  to  youth's  morn,  when  we  rode  forth  alone, 
To  the  conflict  unguarded, — its  gladness  hath  flown  ! 

Give  us  armour  of  proof — our  hopes  were  all  hi 

But  they  passed  like  the  meteor  lights  from  the  sky  ; 


68  GIVE    ME    ARMOUR    OF    PROOF. 

Our  heart's  trust  was  firm,  but  life's  waves  swept  away, 
One  by  one,  the  frail  ties  which  were  shelter  and  stay ; 
And  true  was  our  love,  but  its  bonds  broke  in  twain  : 
Give  me  armour  of  proof,  ere  we  ride  forth  again. 

Give  me  armour  of  proof— we  would  turn  from  the  view 

Of  a  world  that  is  fading  to  one  that  is  true ; 

We  would  lift  up  each  thought  from  this  earth-shaded  light, 

To  the  regions  above,  where  there  stealeth  no  blight ; 

And  with  Faith's  chosen  shield  by  no  dark  tempests  riven, 

We  would  gaze  from  earth's  storms  on  the  brightness  of  heaven ! 

LUCY    HOOFER. 


Stags  of  mt)  Uoutl). 

Days  of  my  youth  !  ye  have  glided  away  ; 
Hairs  of  my  youth  !  ye  are  frosted  and  gray ; 
Eyes  of  my  youth  !  your  keen  sight  is  no  more  ; 
Cheeks  of  my  youth  !  ye  are  furrowed  all  o'er; 
Strength  of  my  youth  !  all  thy  vigour  is  gone ; 
Thoughts  of  my  youth  !  your  gay  visions  are  flown. 

Days  of  my  youth !  I  wish  not  your  recall ; 
Hairs  of  my  youth !  I'm  content  ye  shall  fall ; 
Eyes  of  my  youth  !  you  much  evil  have  seen ; 
Cheeks  of  my  youth !  bathed  in  tears  you  have  been ; 
Thoughts  of  my  youth !  ye  have  led  me  astray-; 
Strength  of  my  youth !  why  lament  thy  decay  1 

Days  of  my  age !  ye  will  shortly  be  past; 
Pains  of  my  age !  yet  awhile  ye  can  last ; 
Joys  of  my  age !  in  true  wisdom  delight; 
Eyes  of  my  age !  be  religion  your  light; 
Thoughts  of  my  age !  dread  ye  not  the  cold  sod ; 
Hopes  of  my  age!  be  ye  fixed  on  your  God. 

ST.   GEORGE   TUCKER. 


fjnmn  of  praise. 


Sing  to  the  Lord !  let  harp,  and  lute,  and  voice, 
Up  to  the  expanding  gates  of  heaven  rejoice, 

While  the  bright  martyrs  to  their  rest  are  borne ; 
Sing  to  the  Lord  !  their  blood-stain'd  course  is  run, 
\nd  rvery  head  its  diadem  hath  won, 

Rich  as  the  purple  of  the  coming  morn: 
Sing  the  triumphant  champions  of  their  God, 
While  burn  their  mounting  feet  along  their  skyward  road. 

Sing  to  the  Lord  !  for  her  in  beauty's  prime 
Snatch'd  from  the  wintry  earth's  ungenial  clime, 

In  the  eternal  spring  of  Paradise  to  bloom ; 
For  her  the  world  display'd  its  brightest  treasure, 
And  the  air  panted  with  the  songs  of  pleasure ; 

Before  earth's  throne  she  chose  the  lowly  tomb, 
The  vale  of  tears  with  willing  footsteps  trod, 
Bearing  her  cross  with  Thee,  incarnate  Son  of  God ! 

Sing  to  the  Lord !  it  is  not  shed  in  vain, 

The  blood  of  martyrs !  from  its  freshening  rain 

High  springs  the  church,  like  some  fount-shadowing  palm 
The  nations  crowd  beneath  its  branching  shade, 
Of  its  green  leaves  are  kingly  diadems  made, 

And  wrapt  within  its  deep  embosoming  calm 
Earth  sinks  to  slumber  like  the  breezeless  deep, 
And  war's  tempestuous  vultures  fold  their  wings  and  sleep. 


69 


70  HYMN    OF    PRAISE. 

Sing  to  the  Lord  1     No  more  the  angels  fly 
Far  in  the  bosom  of  the  stainless  sky 

The  sound  of  fierce  licentious  sacrifice. 
From  shrined  alcove,  and  stately  pedestal, 
The  marble  gods  in  cumbrous  ruin  fall, 

Headless  in  dust  the  awe  of  nations  lies ; 
Jove's  thunder  crumbles  in  his  mouldering  hand, 
And  mute  as  sepulchres  the  hymnless  temples  stand. 

Sing  to  the  Lord  !  from  damp  prophetic  cave 
No  more  the  loose-hair'd  sybils  burst  and  rave, 

Nor  the  pale  augurs  watch  the  wandering  bird  : 
No  more  on  hill  or  in  the  murky  wood, 
Mid  frantic  shout  and  dissonant  music  rude, 

In  human  tones  are  wailing  victims  heard  ; 
Nor  fathers  by  the  reeking  altar-stone 
Cowl  their  dark  heads  t'  escape  their  children's  dying  groan. 

Sing  to  the  Lord !     No  more  the  dead  are  laid 
In  cold  despair  beneath  the  cypress  shade, 

To  sleep  the  eternal  sleep  that  knows  no  morn  : 
There,  eager  still  to  burst  death's  brazen  bands, 
The  angel  of  the  resurrection  stands; 

"While,  on  its  own  immortal  pinions  borne, 
Following  the  breaker  of  the  imprisoning  tomb, 
Forth  springs  the  exulting  soul,  and  shakes  away  its  gloom. 

Sing  to  the  Lord !     The  desert  rocks  break  out, 
And  the  throng'd  cities,  in  one  gladdening  shout, 
The  farthest  shores  by  pilgrim  step  explored  ; 


HYMN    OF    PRAISE. 

Spread  all  your  wings,  ye  winds,  and  waft  around, 
Even  to  the  starry  cope's  pale  waning  bound, 

Earth's  universal  homage  to  the  Lord  ; 
Lift  up  thy  head,  imperial  Capitol, 

Proud  on  thy  height  to  see  the  hanner'd  cross  unroll. 

Sing  to  the  Lord  !  when  time  itself  shall  cease, 
And  final  ruin's  desolating  peace 

Enwrap  this  wide  and  restless  world  of  man; 
When  the  Judge  rides  upon  the  enthroning  wind, 
And  o'er  all  generations  of  mankind 

Eternal  justice  waves  its  winnowing  fan; 
To  vast  infinity's  remotest  space, 
While  ages  run  their  everlasting  race, 
Shall  all  the  beatific  hosts  prolong, 
Wide  as  the  glory  of  the  Lamb,  the  Lamb's  triumphant  song. 


%  Hid)  fHcm  Surprtscb  bn  DcatI). 

In  that  dread  moment,  how  the  frantic  soul 
Raves  round  the  walls  of  her  clay  tenement, 
Runs  to  each  avenue,  and  shrieks  for  help, 
But  shrieks  in  vain  !     How  wistfully  she  looks 
On  all  she's  leaving,  now  no  longer  hers  ! 
A  little  longer,  yet  a  little  longer, 
Oh!  might  she  stay  to  wash  away  her  stains, 
And  fit  her  for  her  passage.     Mournful  sight; 
Her  very  eyes  weep  blood  ;  and  every  groan 
She  heaves  is  big  with  horror.     But  the  foe, 
Like  a  stanch  murderer,  steady  to  his  purpose, 
Pursues  her  close  through  every  lane  of  life, 
Nor  misses  once  the  track,  but  presses  on  ; 
Till,  forced  at  last  to  the  tremendous  verge, 
At  once  she  sinks  to  everlasting  ruin  !   • 

ROB2HT    BLAIR. 


®l)e  t)aubot0  ^avcest  %mn. 


ETERNAL  Father!  God  of  peace! 
Being  whose  bounties  never  cease ! 
While  to  the  Heavens,  in  grateful  tones, 
Ascend  our  mingled  orisons, 
Listen  to  these,  the  notes  of  praise, 
Which  we,  a  happy  people,  raise. 
Oar  hamlets,  shelter'd  by  Thy  care, 
Abodes  of  peace  and  plenty  are; 
Our  tillage  by  Thy  blessing  yields 
An  hundred  fold — the  ripen'd  fields 
Of  waving  grain — the  burden'd  vine — 
Are  tokens  of  Thy  Love  Divine. 
The  cradled  head  of  infancy 
Oweth  its  tranquil  rest  to  Thee — 
Youth's  doubting  step,  and  firmer  tread, 
In  years  mature,  by  Thee  are  led — 
Secure  may  trembling  age,  O  Lord! 
Lean  on  its  staff,  Thy  Holy  Word. 
Teach  us  these  blessings  to  improve, 
Teach  us  to  serve  Thee,  teach  to  love — 
Exalt  our  hearts  that  we  may  see 
The  Giver  of  all  Good  in  Thee  ; 
And  be  Thy  Word  our  daily  food, 
Thy  service,  God,  our  greatest  good. 
Whether  in  youth,  like  early  fruit, 
Or  in  the  sere  and  solemn  suit 
Of  our  autumnal  age,  like  wheat, 
Ripen'd,  and  for  the  reaper  fit, 
Thou  cut  us  off,  O  God,  may  we, 
Gather'd  into  Thy  garner  be! 

H.    HASTINGS    WELD 

(  7-2  ) 


ftlortalitg. 


Oh,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud! 
Like  a  fast  flitting-  meteor,  a  fast  flying  cloud, 
A  flash  of  the  lightning-,  a  break  of  the  wave — 
He  passes  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the  grave. 

The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willows  shall  fade, 
Be  scatter'd  around,  and  together  be  laid; 
And  the  young  and  the  old,  and  the  low  and  the  high, 
Shall  moulder  to  dust,  and  together  shall  lie. 

The  child  whom  a  mother  attended  and  loved, 
The  mother  that  infant's  affection  who  proved, 
The  husband  that  mother  and  infant  who  blest, 
Each — all  are  away  to  their  dwelling  of  rest. 

The  maid  on  whose  cheek,  on  whose  brow,  in  whose  eye, 
Shone  beauty  and  pleasure — her  triumphs  are  by  ;         » 
And  the  memory  of  those  who  loved  her  and  praised, 
Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living  erased. 

The  hand  of  the  king  who  the  sceptre  hath  borne, 
The  brow  of  the  priest  who  the  mitre  hath  worn, 
The  eye  of  the  sage  and  the  heart  of  the  brave 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  grave. 


74  MORTALITY. 

The  peasant  whose  lot  was  to  sow  and  to  reap, 
The  herdsman  who  climbed  with  his  goats  to  the  steep, 
The  beggar  who  wander'd  in  search  of  his  bread, 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that  we  tread. 

The  saint  who  enjoy 'd  the  communion  of  heaven, 
The  sinner  who  dared  to  remain  unforgiven, 
The  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  guilty  and  just, 
Have  quietly  mingled  their  bones  in  the  dust. 

So  the  multitude  goes — like  the  flower  and  the  weed 
That  wither  away  to  let  others  succeed ; 
So  the  multitude  comes — even  those  we  behold, 
To  repeat  every  tale  that  has  often  been  told. 

For  we  are  the  same  things  that  our  fathers  have  been, 
We  see  the  same  sights  that  our  fathers  have  seen; 
We  drink  the  same  stream,  and  we  feel  the  same  sun, 
And  we  run  the  same  course  that  our  fathers  have  run. 

The  thoughts  we  are  thinking  our  fathers  would  think, 
From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  from,  they  too  would  shrink, 
To  the  life  we  are  clinging  to,  they  too  would  cling, 
But  it  speeds  from  the  earth  like  a  bird  on  the  wing. 

They  loved — but  their  story  we  cannot  unfold, 
They  scorn' d — but  the  heart  of  the  haughty  is  cold, 
They  grieved — but  no  wail  from  their  slumbers  may  come, 
They  joy'd — but  the  voice  of  their  gladness  is  dumb. 

They  died — ay,  they  died  !  and  we  things  that  are  now, 
Who  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their  brow, 
Who  make  in  their  dwellings  a  transient  abode, 
Meet  the  changes  they  met  on  their  pilgrimage  road. 


V 


MORTALITY. 

\  i    ■,  hope  and  despondence,  and  pleasure  and  pain, 

Arc  mingled  together  in  sunshine  and  rain; 

And  the  smile,  and  tin   tear,  and  the  song,  and  the  dirge, 

Still  follow  each  other  like  Surge  upon  surge. 

'Tis  the  tu  ink  of  an  eye,  'tis  the  draught  of  a  breath, 
From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the  paleness  of  death, 
From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier  and  the  shroud — 
Oh  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud! 


d3ncf  was  sent  tl)cc  for  tl)t)  gooLJ. 


Some  there  are  who  seem  exempted 

From  the  doom  incurr'd  by  all; 
Are  they  not  more  sorely  tempted  *? 

Are  they  not  the  first  to  fall "? 
As  a  mother's  firm  denial 

Checks  her  infant's  wayward  mood, 
Wisdom  lurks  in  ev'ry  trial — 

Grief  was  sent  thee  for  thy  good. 

In  the  scenes  of  former  pleasure, 

Present  anguish  hast  thou  felt] 
O'er  thy  fond  heart's  dearest  treasure 

As  a  mourner  hast  thou  knelt? 
In  the  hour  of  deep  affliction, 

Let  no  impious  thought  intrude, 
Meekly  bow  with  this  conviction, 

Grief  was  sent  thee  for  thy  good. 

THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY. 


&[)e  0eatl)  of  flloses. 


Led  by  his  God,  on  Pisgah's  height 

The  pilgrim-prophet  stood  ; 
When  first  fair  Canaan  blessed  his  sight, 

And  Jordan's  crystal  flood. 

Behind  him  lay  the  desert  ground 

His  weary  feet  had  trod ; 
While  Israel's  host  eneamp'd  around, 

Still  guarded  by  their  God. 

With  joy  the  aged  Moses  smiled 

On  all  his  wanderings  past, 
While  thus  he  pour'd  his  accents  mild 

Upon  the  mountain  blast: — 

k'  I  see  them  all  before  me  now, — 

The  city  and  the  plain, 
From  where  bright  Jordan's  waters  flow, 

To  yonder  boundless  main. 

"  Oh  !  there  the  lovely  promised  land 

With  milk  and  honey  flows  ; 
Now,  now  my  weary,  murmuring  band 

Shall  find  their  sweet  repose. 

"  There  groves  of  palm  and  myrtle  spread 

O'er  valleys  fair  and  wide  ; 
The  lofty  cedar  rears  its  head 

On  every  mountain  side. 


(76) 


THF.    DEATH    01     MOS1  S. 

"For  them  the  rose  of  Sharon  flii 

Her  fragrance  on  the  gale; 
And  there  the  golden  lily  sprh  s 

The  lily  of  the  vale. 

"Amid  the  olive's  fruitful  boughs 

Is  heard  a  song  of  love, 
For  there  doth  build  and  breathe  her  vows 

The  gentle  turtle-dove. 

"  For  them  shall  bloom  the  clustering  vine, 

The  fig-tree  shed  her  flowers, 
The  citron's  golden  treasures  shine 

From  out  her  greenest  bowers. 

"  For  them,  for  them,  but  not  for  me, — 

Their  fruits  I  may  not  eat; 
Not  Jordan's  stream,  nor  yon  bright  sea, 

Shall  lave  my  pilgrim  feet. 

"  'Tis  well,  'tis  well ;  my  task  is  done, 

Since  Israel's  sons  are  blest; 
Father,  receive  thy  dying  one 

To  thy  eternal  rest!" 

Alone  he  bade  the  world  farewell, 

To  God  his  spirit  fled. 
Now  to  your  tents,  O  Israel, 

And  mourn  your  prophet  dead  ! 

JESSIE  O.  M'CAHTEB. 


Stye  £anb  roljid)  no  fflortal  mat)  know. 


Though  Earth  has  full  many  a  beautiful  spot, 

As  a  poet  or  painter  might  show, 
Yet  more  lovely  and  beautiful,  holy  and  bright, 
To  the  hopes  of  the  heart,  and  the  spirit's  glad  sight, 

Is  the  land  that  no  mortal  may  know. 

There  the  crystalline  stream  bursting  forth  from  the  throne, 

Flows  on,  and  for  ever  will  flow ; 
Its  waves,  as  they  roll,  are  with  melody  rife, 
And  its  waters  are  sparkling  with  beauty  and  life, 

In  the  land  which  no  mortal  may  know. 

And  there,  on  its  margin,  with  leaves  ever  green, 

With  its  fruits  healing  sickness  and  wo, 
The  fair  Tree  of  Life,  in  its  glory  and  pride, 
Is  fed  by  that  deep,  inexhaustible  tide, 

Of  the  land  which  no  mortal  may  know. 

There,  too,  are  the  lost !  whom  we  loved  on  this  earth, 

With  whose  mem'ries  our  bosoms  yet  glow ; 
Their  relics  we  gave  to  the  place  of  the  dead, 
But  their  glorified  spirits  before  us  have  fled, 
To  the  land  which  no  mortal  may  know. 

There  the  pale  orb  of  night,  and  the  fountain  of  day, 

Nor  beauty  nor  splendour  bestow; 
But  the  presence  of  Him,  the  unchanging  I  AM  ! 
And  the  holy,  the  pure,  the  immaculate  Lamb ! 

Light  the  land  which  no  mortal  may  know. 

(78) 


THE  LAND  which  no  MORTAL  .may  KNOW. 

Oh !  who  but  must  pine,  in  this  dark  vale  of  tears, 

Prom  its  clouds  and  its  shadows  to  gol 
To  walk  in  the  light  of  the  glory  above, 
And  to  share  in  the  peace,  and  the  joy,  and  the  love, 

Of  the  land  which  no  mortal  may  know. 

BERNARD  BARTON. 


£ifc. 


We  are  born  ;  we  laugh;  we  weep; 

We  love;  we  droop;  we  die! 
Ah !  wherefore  do  we  laugh,  or  weep  ] 

Why  do  we  live,  or  die? 
Who  knows  that  secret  deep  1 

Alas,  not  I ! 

Why  doth  the  violet  spring 

Unseen  by  human  eye  1 
Why  do  the  radiant  seasons  bring 

Sweet  thoughts  that  quickly  fly  1 
Why  do  our  fond  hearts  cling 

To  things  that  die] 

We  toil — through  pain  and  wrong ; 

We  fight — and  fly ; 
We  love ;  we  lose ;  and  then,  ere  long, 

Stone-dead  we  lie. 
O  life  !  is  all  thy  song 

M  Endure  and — die]" 

BARRY  CORNWALL. 


§ttman  ©ft. 


How  long-  shall  man's  imprison'd  spirit  groan 

'Twixt  doubt  of  heaven  and  deep  disgust  of  earth] 

Where  all  worth  knowing  never  can  be  known, 
And  all  that  can  be  known,  alas !  is  nothing  worth. 

«        r 

Untaught  by  saint,  by  cynic,  or  by  sage, 
And  all  the  spoils  of  time  that  load  their  shelves, 

We  do  not  quit,  but  change  our  joys  in  age — 
Joys  framed  to  stifle  thought,  and  lead  us  from  ourselves. 

The  drug,  the  cord,  the  steel,  the  flood,  the  flame, 

Turmoil  of  action,  tedium  of  rest, 
And  lust  of  change,  though  for  the  worst,  proclaim 

How  dull  life's  banquet  is :  how  ill  at  ease  the  guest. 


Known  were  the  bill  of  fare  before  we  taste, 

Who  would  not  spurn  the  banquet  and  the  board — 

Prefer  the  eternal,  but  oblivious  fast, 

To  life's  frail-fretted  thread,  and  death's  suspended  sword  1 


He  that  the  topmost  stone  of  Babel  plann'd, 
And  he  that  braved  the  crater's  boiling  bed — 

Did  these  a  clearer,  closer  view  command 

Of  heaven  or  hell,  we  ask,  than  the  blind  herd  they  led  1 

(80) 


HUMAN    Mil..  SI 

Or  h*  that  in  Valdamo  did  prolong 

The  night  her  rich  Btar-studded  page  to  read — 
( 'mild  he  point  out,  midst  all  that  brilliant  throng, 

His  fix'd  and  final  homo,  from  fleshy  thraldom  freed  ! 

Minds  that  havo  scannM  creation's  vast,  domain, 

And  secrets  solved,  till  then  to  sages  seal'd, 
Whilst  nature  own'd  their  intellectual  reign 

Kxtinet,  have  nothing  known  or  nothing  have  reveal'd. 

Devouring  grave !  we  might  the  less  deplore 
The  extinguish'd  lights  that  in  thy  darkness  dwell, 

Wouldst  thou,  from  that  last  zodiac,  one  restore, 
That  might  the  enigma  solve,  and  doubt,  man's  tyrant,  quell. 

To  live  in  darkness — in  despair  to  die — 

Is  this  indeed  the  boon  to  mortals  given? 
Is  there  no  port — no  rock  of  refuge  nigh  ] 

There  is — to  those  who  fix  their  anchor-hope  in  heaven. 

Turn  then,  O  man  !  and  cast  all  else  aside  : 

Direct  thy  wandering  thoughts  to  things  above — 
Low  at  the  cross  bow  down — in  that  confide, 

Till  doubt  be  lost  in  faith,  and  bliss  secured  in  love. 

C.  C.    COLTON 


Smiting  tl)e  lioick. 


Behold,  I  will  stand  before  thee  there  upon  the  rock  in  Horeb ;  and  thou  shalt  smite  the  rock,  and 
there  shall  come  water  out  of  it,  that  the  people  may  drink.  And  Moses  did  so  in  the  sight  of  the 
elders  of  Israel. 

And  he  called  the  name  of  the  place  Massah,  and  Meribah,  because  of  the  chiding  of  the  chil- 
dren of  Israel,  and  because  they  tempted  the  Lord,  saying,  "  Is  the  Lord  among  us  or  not  ?" — Ex- 
odus xvii.  6,  7. 


When  wandering  in  the  wilderness, 
The  people  cried  in  their  distress; 
And  ever  was  the  murmuring  cry, 
"  Give  us  drink,  or  else  we  die!" 

And  eager  was  the  cry,  and  loud  ; 
A  rebel,  not  a  suppliant  crowd ; 
Till  Moses  smote  the  rock,  and  burst 
The  full  stream  forth  unto  their  thirst. 

Thus  countless  are  the  sufferers  still, 
Sad  wanderers  of  an  evil  will ; 
And  still  ascends  the  feverish  cry, 
"  Give  us  to  drink,  or  else  we  die." 

Has  then  the  living  rock  been  rent 
In  vain — in  vain  its  waters  spent; 
The  waters  of  eternal  power, 
Which  flowed,  and  flow  unto  this  hour? 

For  thousands,  standing  on  its  brink, 
Behold  the  stream,  who  never  drink; 
Here  drinking  once,  for  ever  more 
Their  souls  with  blessings  had  run  o'er. 


RICHARD    EOwm. 

(82) 


dljrist  hi  tl)c  (Ecinpcst 

St.  Matthew  viii.  21—2" 

Midnight  was  on  the  mighty  deep, 
And  darkness  filled  the  boundless  sky, 

While  'mid  the  raging  wind  was  heard 
The  sea-bird's  mournful  cry  ; 

For  tempest-clouds  were  mustering  wrath 

Across  the  seaman's  trackless  path. 

It  came  at  length — one  fearful  gust 
Rent  from  the  mast  the  shivering  sail, 

And  drove  the  helpless  bark  along, 
The  plaything  of  the  gale, 

While  fearfully  the  lightning's  glare, 

Fell  on  the  pale  brows  gathered  there. 

But  there  was  one  o'er  whose  bright  face 
Unmarked  the  livid  lightnings  flashed  ; 

And  on  whose  stirless,  prostrate  form 
Unfelt  the  sea-spray  dashed  ; 

For  'mid  the  tempest  fierce  and  wild, 

He  slumbered  like  a  wearied  child. 

Oh  !  who  could  look  upon  that  face, 

And  feel  the  sting  of  coward  fear! 
Though  hell's  fierce  demons  raged  around, 

Yet  heaven  itself  was  here  ; 
For  who  that  glorious  brow  could  see, 
Nor  own  a  present  Deity  1 

(83) 


84  CHRIST    IN    THE    TEMPEST. 

With  hurried  fear  they  press  around 
The  lowly  Saviour's  humble  bed, 

As  if  his  very  touch  had  power 
To  shield  their  souls  from  dread  ; 

While,  cradled  on  the  raging  deep, 

He  lay  in  calm  and  tranquil  sleep. 

Vainly  they  struggled  with  their  fears, 
But  wilder  still  the  tempest  woke, 

Till  from  their  full  and  o'erfraught  hearts 
The  voice  of  terror  broke  : 

"  Behold  !  we  sink  beneath  the  wave  ; 

We  perish,  Lord  !  but  thou  canst  save." 

Slowly  he  rose  ;  and  mild  rebuke 
Shone  in  his  soft  and  heaven-lit  eye  : 

"  Oh  ye  of  little  faith,"  he  cried, 
"  Is  not  your  master  nigh  1 

Is  not  your  hope  of  succour  just] 

Why  know  ye  not  in  whom  ye  trust1?" 

He  turned  away,  and  conscious  power 

Dilated  his  majestic  form, 
As  o'er  the  boiling  sea  he  bent, 

The  ruler  of  the  storm  ; 
Earth  to  its  centre  felt  the  thrill, 
As  low  he  murmured  :  "  Peace  !  be  still !" 

Hark  to  the  burst  of  meeting  waves, 
The  roaring  of  the  angry  sea  ! 

A  moment  more,  and  all  is  hushed 
In  deep  tranquillity ; 

While  not  a  breeze  is  near  to  break 

The  mirrored  surface  of  the  lake. 

Then  on  the  stricken  hearts  of  all 

Fell  anxious  doubt  and  holy  awe, 
As  timidly  they  gazed  on  him 
Whose  will  was  nature's  law  : 
"What  man  is  this,"  they  cry,  "  whose  word 
E'en  by  the  raging  sea  is  heard  1" 

EMMA.   C    EMBURY. 


©be  to  tlje  Samorxv. 


For  thou  wert  born  of  woman!  thou  didst  come 
0  Holiest !  to  this  world  of  sin  and  gloom, 
Not  in  thy  dread  omnipotent  array; 

And  not  by  thunder  strew'd 
Was  thy  tempestuous  road  ; 
Nor  indignation  burnt  before  thee  on  thy  way. 
But  thee,  a  soft  and  naked  child, 
Thy  mother  undefiled, 
In  the  rude  manger  laid  to  rest 
From  off  her  virgin  breast. 


The  heavens  were  not  commanded  to  prepare 
A  gorgeous  canopy  of  golden  air ; 
Xor  stoop'd  their  lamps  the  enthroned  fires  on  high 
A  single  silent  star 
Came  wandering  from  afar, 
Gliding  uncheck'd  and  calm  along  the  liquid  sky; 
The  Eastern  sages  leading  on, 

As  at  a  kingly  throne, 
To  lay  their  gold  and  odours  sweet 
Before  thy  infant  feet. 


(85) 


86  ODE    TO    THE    SAVIOUR. 

The  Earth  and  Ocean  were  not  hush'd  to  hear 
Bright  harmony  from  every  starry  sphere  ; 
Nor  at  thy  presence  brake  the  voice  of  song 
From  all  the  cherub  choirs, 
And  seraphs'  burning  lyres, 
Pour'd  through  the  host  of  heaven  the  charmed  clouds  along. 
One  angel-troop  the  strain  began  ; 

Of  all  the  race  of  man 
By  simple  shepherds  heard  alone, 
That  soft  Hosanna's  tone. 

And  when  thou  didst  depart,  no  car  of  flame 
To  bear  thee  hence  in  lambent  radiance  came; 
Nor  visible  angels  mourn'd  with  drooping  plumes  : 
Nor  didst  thou  mount  on  high 
From  fatal  Calvary, 
With  all  thy  own  redeemed  out-bursting  from  their  tombs. 
For  thou  didst  bear  away  from  earth 

But  one  of  human  birth, 
The  dying  felon  by  thy  side,  to  be 
In  Paradise  with  thee. 

Nor  o'er  thy  cross  the  clouds  of  vengeance  brake; 
A  little  while  the  conscious  earth  did  shake 
At  that  foul  deed  by  her  fierce  children  done  ; 
A  few  dim  hours  of  day 
The  world  in  darkness  lay  ; 
Then  bask'd  in  bright  repose  beneath  the  cloudless  sun, 
While  thou  didst  sleep  within  the  tomb, 

Consenting  to  thy  doom; 
Ere  yet  the  white  robed  angel  shone 
Upon  the  sealed  stone. 


ODE    TO    THE    SAVIOUR. 

And  when  thou  didst  arise,  thou  didst  not  stand 
With  Devastation  in  thy  red  right  hand, 
Plaguing  the  guilty  city's  murderous  crew  ; 
But  thou  didst  haste  to  meet 
Thy  mother's  coming  fi 
And  bear  the  words  of  peace  unto  the  faithful  few. 
Then  calmly,  slowly  didst  thou  rise 

Into  thy  native  skies, 
Thy  human  form  dissolved  on  high 
Tn  its  own  radiancy. 

UAM. 


(Du  a  picture  of  Jerusalem. 

Jerusalem  !  And  at  the  fatal  hour, 

No  need  of  dull  and  frivolous  questions  here ! 

No  need  of  human  agents  to  make  clear 
The  most  tremendous  act  of  human  power. 
The  distant  cross,  the  rent  and  fallen  tower, 

The  opening  graves  from  which  the  dead  uprear 

Their  buried  forms,  the  elemental  fear, 
When  horrid  light  and  horrid  darkness  lower, 

All  tell  the  holy  tale :  the  mystery 
And  solace  of  our  souls.     Awe-struck  we  gaze 

On  this  so  mute  yet  eloquent  history  ! 
Awe-struck  and  sad  at  length  our  eyes  we  raise 

To  go ;  yet  oft  return  that  scene  to  see, 
Too  full  of  the  great  theme  to  think  of  praise. 

MISS  MIT 


ijeurg  of  2Uti  anb  pero  Zmo. 


See,  between  the  moonlit  myrtles,  unbetray'd  by  sound  or  gleam, 
Henry  of  Asti, — Piero  Zeno, — landing,  silent  as  a  dream : — 

Henry  of  Asti,  priest  and  soldier,  Legate  of  the  Pontiff's  will, 
Zeno,  the  Republic's  Captain,  pledged  her  glory  to  fulfil. 

See  them  winding  through  the  thicket  up  to  Smyrna's  ancient  wall, 
Where  by  Moslem  bands  beleaguer'd,  Christian  hearts  for  succour  call.* 

Sure  of  their  victorious  morrow,  weary  warriors  strew  the  ground, 
When  the  known  Venetian  war-cry,  as  by  magic,  thunders  round. 

Mask'd  and  multiplied  by  darkness,  strike  the  few,  the  many  fly, — 
Chase  and  plunder  will  not  slacken  till  the  morn  ascends  the  sky. 

Then,  no  more  by  cunning  by-paths, — freely  scatter'd  o'er  the  plain, — 
Soldiers,  full  of  gain  and  glory,  seek  their  secret  ships  again. 

But  that  ruin'd  church  has  check'd  them, — by  disorder'd  symbols  shown 
To  the  Evangelist  devoted  pious  Venice  holds  her  own. 

So,  their  glad  career  arresting,  spoke  the  Legate,  "  We  must  raise 
From  this  long  abandon'd  altar,  sacrifice  of  prayer  and  praise. 

In  the  night's  unequal  conflict,  hardly  had  our  strength  been  tried, 
Felt  we  not  our  gracious  Patron  fight  in  spirit  by  our  side." 

Loud  "Amen,"  the  troop  replying,  knelt,  and  steep'd  in  holy  joy 
Souls  that  seem'd  but  now  infuriate  with  the  passion  to  destroy. 

When  at  length  the  foe  defeated,  from  their  mountain  fastness,  saw, 

How  unreal  the  might  and  numbers,  whom  the  dark  had  clothed  with  awe. 


*A.  D.  1341. 

(88) 


HENRY    OF    AMI    AM)    PIERO    ZENO. 


89 


Down  they  bounded,  as  by  instinct  that  migfal  slake  their  burning  sham* 
In  the  blood  of  some  far  straggler,  some  who  loiterM  while  they  can* 

Conscious  thai  the  wamM  Venetians  oeed  but  raise  the  bended  knee, 
And,  despite  this  tardy  valour,  safely  reach  the  neighbouring  sea. 

Plight  was  ready,  yet  the  Legate  questionM  with  one  look  his  friend, 
And  the  Captain  answer'd— "  Move  not!  1  am  with  you  to  the  end. 

m  Be  thy  blessed  work  consummate !  undisturb'd  thy  priestly  care  : 
God  can  save  us ;  if  he  wills  not  we  the  martyr-crown  should  wear." 

'•Seek  the  ships,"  conjured  the  soldiers  ;  louder  grew  the  clamorous  foe; 
Mid  the  pauses,  like  a  river,  seem'd  the  solemn  chant  to  flow ; 

One  the  holy  words  intoning,  one  responding  firm  and  clear, 
<  last  the  very  raging  heathen  into  trance  of  silent  fear. 

Nor  till  both  those  noble  spirits,  satisfied  with  heavenly  food, 

Turn'd  in  calm  disdain  upon  them,  could  they  quench  their  wrath  in  blood. 

Thus  were  slain  these  faithful  warders  of  the  names  and  faith  they  bore, 
Not  forgetting  Rome  or  Venice,  but  remembering  Christ  the  more. 

RICHARD  MONCKTON   MTLKEB. 


©ootr-btie,  JJrottb  tDorlb. 


GOOD-BYE,  proud  world !  I'm  going  home ; 

Thou  art  not  my  friend ;  I  am  not  thine  : 
Too  long  through  weary  crowds  I  roam — 

A  river  ark  on  the  ocean  brine. 
Too  long  I  am  toss'd  like  the  driven  foam 
But  now,  proud  world,  I'm  going  home. 

Good-bye  to  Flattery's  fawning  face ; 

To  Grandeur,  with  his  wise  grimace ; 

To  upstart  Wealth's  averted  eye ; 

To  supple  office,  low  and  high ; 

To  crowded  halls ;  to  court  and  street; 

To  frozen  hearts,  and  hasting  feet ; 

To  those  who  go,  and  those  who  come, — 

Good-bye,  proud  world,  I'm  going  home. 

I  go  to  seek  my  own  hearth-stone 
Bosom'd  in  yon  green  hills  alone; 
A  secret  lodge  in  a  pleasant  land, 
Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  plann'd, 
Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day 
Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay, 
And  evil  men  have  never  trod — 
A  spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  God. 

(90) 


GOOD-BYE,    PROUD    WORLD.  91 

O,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 
I  mock  at  the  pride  of  (J recce  and  Rome; 
\ ii.l  when  I  am  streteh'd  beneath  the  pines 
Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 
I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  pride  of  man, 
At  the  sophist  schools,  and  the  learned  clan; 
For  what  are  they  all  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet? 

RALPH    WALDO   EMERSON. 


Dirge  for  a  tioung  (Sirl. 


Underneath  the  sod,  low  lying,  dark  and  drear, 
Sleepeth  one  who  left,  in  dying,  sorrow  here. 

Yes,  they're  ever  bending  o'er  her,  eyes  that  weep ; 
Forms  that  to  the  cold  grave  bore  her,  vigils  keep. 

When  the  summer  moon  is  shining,  soft  and  fair, 
Friends  she  loved  in  tears  are  twining  chaplets  there. 

Rest  in  peace,  thou  gentle  spirit,  throned  above; 
Souls  like  thine,  with  God,  inherit  life  and  love. 

JAMES  T   FIELDS. 


3t  is  <5aotr  to  be  fijere. 


WRITTEN     IN     A     CHURCHYARD. 


Methinks  it  is  good  to  be  here: 
If  thou  wilt,  let  us  build — but  for  whom  ] 

Nor  Elias  nor  Moses  appear, 
But  the  shadows  of  eve  that  encompass  the  gloom, 
The  abode  of  the  dead,  and  the  place  of  the  tomb. 

Shall  we  build  to  Ambition?     Ah!  no; 
Affrighted  he  shrinketh  away; 

For  see !  they  would  pin  him  below 
To  a  small  narrow  cave,  and  begirt  with  cold  clay, 
To  the  meanest  of  reptiles  a  peer  and  a  prey. 

To  Beauty  1     Ah !  no ;  she  forgets 
The  charms  that  she  wielded  before : 

Nor  knows  the  foul  worm,  that  he  frets 
The  skin  which  but  yesterday  fools  could  adore, 
For  the  smoothness  it  held,  or  the  tint  which  it  wore. 

Shall  we  build  to  the  Purple  of  Pride, 
The  trappings  which  dizen  the  prcud? 

Alas !  they  are  all  laid  aside, 
And  here's  neither  dress  nor  adornment  allow'd, 
But  the  long  winding-sheet  and  the  fringe  of  the  shroud. 


(92) 


IT    IS    GOOD    TO    BK    HERE. 

To  Riches?     Alas!  'tis  in  vain: 
Who  hid  in  their  turns  have  been  hid  ; 

The  treasures  are  squander'd  again ; 
And  here  in  the  grave  are  all  mortals  forbid 
But  the  tinsel  that  shone  on  the  dark  coffin  lid. 

To  the  Pleasures  which  Mirth  can  afford? 
The  revel,  the  laugh,  and  the  jeer] 

Ah  !  here  is  a  plentiful  board, 
But  the  guests  are  all  mute  as  their  pitiful  cheer, 
And  none  but  the  worm  is  a  reveller  here. 

Shall  we  build  to  Affection  and  Love] 
Ah!  no;  they  have  wither'd  and  died, 

Or  fled  with  the  spirit  above — 
Friends,  brothers,  and  sisters,  are  laid  side  by  side, 
Yet  none  have  saluted,  and  none  have  replied. 

Unto  Sorrow]     The  dead  cannot  grieve, 
Xot  a  sob,  not  a  sigh  meets  mine  ear, 
Which  compassion  itself  could  relieve; 
Ah !  sweetly  they  slumber,  nor  hope,  love,  or  fear; 
Peace,  peace  is  the  watchword,  the  only  one  here. 

Unto  Death]  to  whom  monarchs  must  bow! 
Ah!  no;  for  his  empire  is  known, 

And  here  there  are  trophies  enow ; 
Beneath,  the  cold  dead — and  around,  the  dark  stone 
Are  the  signs  of  a  sceptre  that  none  may  disown. 

The  first  tabernacle  to  Hope  we  will  build, 
And  look  for  the  sleepers  around  us  to  rise ; 
The  second  to  Faith,  which  insures  it  fulfill'd, 
And  the  third  to  the  Lamb  of  the  Great  Sacrifice, 
Who  bequeathed  us  them  both  when  he  rose  to  the  skies. 

HERBERT   KNOWLES. 


2ltt  $Ottt*  ttJltt)  @ob. 


One  hour  with  Thee,  my  God  !  when  daylight  breaks 
Over  a  world  thy  guardian  care  has  kept, 

When  the  fresh  soul  from  soothing  slumber  wakes, 
To  praise  the  love  that  watch'd  me  while  I  slept ; 

When  with  new  strength  my  blood  is  bounding  free, 

That  first,  best,  sweetest  hour,  I'll  give  to  Thee. 

One  hour  with  Thee,  when  busy  day  begins 
Her  never-ceasing  round  of  bustling  care, 

When  I  must  meet  with  toil,  and  pain,  and  sins, 
And  through  them  all  thy  holy  cross  must  bear; 

O  then  to  arm  me  for  the  strife,  to  be 

Faithful  to  death,  I'll  kneel  an  hour  to  Thee. 

One  hour  with  Thee,  when  rides  the  glorious  sun 
High  in  mid-heaven,  and  panting  nature  feels 

Lifeless  and  overpower'd,  and  man  has  done 

For  one  short  hour  with  urging  life's  swift  wheels; 

In  that  deep  pause  my  soul  from  care  shall  flee, 

To  make  that  hour  of  rest  one  hour  with  Thee. 

One  hour  with  Thee,  when  sadden'd  twilight  flings 
Her  soothing  charm  o'er  lawn,  and  vale,  and  grove, 

When  there  breathes  up  from  all  created  things 
The  sweet  enthralling  sense  of  thy  deep  love; 

And  when  its  softening  power  descends  on  me, 

My  swelling  heart  shall  spend  one  hour  with  Thee. 

(94) 


AN    HOUR    WITH    GOD. 

One  hour  with  Thee,  my  God  !  when  softly  night 
Climbs  the  high  heaven  with  solemn  step  and  slow, 

When  thy  sweet  stars,  unutterably  bright, 
Are  telling  forth  thy  praise  to  men  below; 

Oh  then,  while  far  from  earth  my  thoughts  would  flee, 

I'll  spend  in  prayer  one  joyful  hour  with  Thee. 

ANONYMOUS. 


®l)c  (Cl)vistmas  (Offering. 


We  come  not  with  a  costly  store, 

O  Lord,  like  them  of  old, 
The  masters  of  the  starry  lore, 

From  Ophir's  shore  of  gold  • 
No  weepings  of  the  incense  tree 

Are  with  the  gifts  we  bring, 
No  odorous  myrrh  of  Araby 

Blends  with  our  offering. 

But  still  our  love  would  bring  its  best, 

A  spirit  keenly  tried 
By  fierce  affliction's  fiery  test, 

And  seven  times  purified  : 
The  fragrant  graces  of  the  mind, 

The  virtues  that  delight 
To  give  their  perfume  out,  will  find 

Acceptance  in  thy  sight. 

W.  CROSWEIX. 


$timn  of  tljc  iDalbmses. 


HEAR,  Father,  hear  thy  faint  afflicted  flock 
Cry  to  thee,  from  the  desert  and  the  rock : 
While  those,  who  seek  to  slay  thy  children,  hold 
Blasphemous  worship  under  roofs  of  gold  ; 
And  the  broad  goodly  lands,  with  pleasant  airs, 
That  nurse  the  grape  and  wave  the  grain,  are  theirs. 

Yet  better  were  this  mountain  wilderness, 
And  this  wild  life  of  danger  and  distress — 
Watchings  by  night  and  perilous  flight  by  day, 
And  meetings  in  the  depths  of  earth  to  pray: 
Better,  far  better,  than  to  kneel  with  them, 
And  pay  the  impious  rite  thy  laws  condemn. 

Thou,  Lord,  dost  hold  the  thunder;  the  firm  land 
Tosses  in  billows  when  it  feels  thy  hand  ; 
Thou  dashest  nation  against  nation,  then 
Stillest  the  angry  world  to  peace  again. 
Oh !  touch  their  stony  hearts  who  hurt  thy  sons — 
The  murderers  of  our  wives  and  little  ones. 

Yet,  mighty  God,  yet  shall  thy  frown  look  forth 
Unveil'd,  and  terribly  shall  shake  the  earth. 
Then  the  foul  power  of  priestly  sin,  and  all 
Its  long  upheld  idolatries  shall  fall : 
Thou  shalt  raise  up  the  trampled  and  opprest, 
And  thy  deliver' d  saints  shall  dwell  in  rest. 


(96) 


3,  fHotljcr's  Dirge  oocr  l)cr  (Il)ilb. 


Bring  me  flowers  all  young  and  sweet, 
That  I  may  strew  the  winding  sheet, 
Where  calm  thou  sleepest,  haby  fair, 
With  roseless  cheek  and  auburn  hair ! 

Bring  me  the  rosemary,  whose  breath 
Perfumed  the  wild  and  desert  heath : 
The  lily  of  the  vale,  which,  too, 
In  silence  and  in  beauty  grew. 

Bring  cypress  from  some  sunless  spot, 
Bring  me  the  blue  forget-me-not, 
That  I  may  strew  them  o'er  thy  bier, 
With  long-drawn  sigh  and  gushing  tear  ! 

Oh,  what  upon  this  earth  doth  prove 
So  steadfast  as  a  mother's  love ! 
Oh  what  on  earth  can  bring  relief, 
Or  solace,  to  a  mother's  grief! 

No  more,  my  baby,  shalt  thou  lie 
With  drowsy  smile,  and  half-shut  eye, 
Pillow'd  upon  my  fostering  breast, 
Serenely  sinking  into  rest ! 


('J?  ) 


98 


The  grave  must  be  thy  cradle  now ; 

The  wild-flowers  o'er  thy  breast  shall  grow, 

While  still  my  heart,  all  full  of  thee, 

In  widow'd  solitude  shall  be. 

No  taint  of  earth,  no  thought  of  sin, 
E'er  dwelt  thy  stainless  breast  within  ; 
And  God  hath  laid  thee  down  to  sleep, 
Like  a  pure  pearl  below  the  deep. 

Yea!  from  mine  arms  thy  soul  hath  flown 
Above,  and  found  the  heavenly  throne, 
To  join  that  blest  angelic  ring, 
That  aye  around  the  altar  sing. 

Methought  when  years  had  roll'd  away, 
That  thou  wouldst  be  mine  age's  stay, 
And  often  have  I  dreamt  to  see 
The  boy — the  youth — the  man  in  thee ! 

But  thou  hast  past!  for  ever  gone 
To  leave  me  childless  and  alone, 
Like  Rachel  pouring  tear  on  tear, 
And  looking  not  for  comfort  here ! 

Farewell,  my  child,  the  dews  shall  fall 
At  noon  and  evening  o'er  thy  pall ; 
And  daisies,  when  the  vernal  year 
Revives,  upon  thy  turf  appear. 


a   mother's   DIRGE   OVER    HER    CHILD.  (,'» 

The  earliest  snow-drop  there  shall  spring, 
And  lark  delight  to  fold  his  wing, 
And  roses  pale,  and  lilies  fair, 
With  perfume  load  the  summer  air. 

Adieu,  my  babe!  if  life  were  long, 
This  would  be  even  a  heavier  song, 
But  years  like  phantoms  quickly  pass, 
Then  look  to  us  from  memory's  glass. 

Soon  on  death's  couch  shall  I  recline  ; 
Soon  shall  my  head  be  laid  with  thine  ; 
And  sunder'd  spirits  meet  above, 
To  live  for  evermore  in  love. 

MOIK. 


Stye  Bribe  of  Qecwen. 


How  beautiful  she  lies,  upon  her  pure  white  bed, 
While  pale  flowers  o'er  her  brow  a  holy  incense  shed ; 
The  eyelids  tremble  not ;   so  peaceful  is  her  rest, 
That  even  her  maiden  heart  lies  silent  in  her  breast. 

Why  o'er  the  sweet,  calm  face,  fond  mother,  dost  thou  weep  ? 
Wouldst  thou  awake  thy  child  from  such  a  quiet  sleep  1 
She  is  asleep  with  Him  whose  love  alone  is  pure, 
Within  whose  presence  bliss  shall  evermore  endure. 

No  grief,  no  care,  no  pain,  can  ever  pierce  her  heart, 
No  loved  voice  say  again,  "Sweet  sister,  we  must  part!" 
The  living  waters  sweet  have  quenched  her  spirit's  thirst, 
And  on  her  soul  the  light  of  Holiness  has  burst. 

Why  weep  we  then  for  her  whose  days  of  pain  are  o'er? 
Bright  hands  have  wiped  her  tears,  and  she  shall  shed  no  more. 
To  agony  and  tears  the  brides  of  earth  are  given — 
Oh,  bless  her,  as  she  lies,  the  pure  young  bride  of  Heaven. 

LYDIA    JANS    TEIRSON. 


<£\)t  tParning  fooicc. 


My  youth  had  glad  and  golden  hours, — but  these  were  few  and  fleet, 
For  I  was  early  call'd  to  quit  my  boyhood's  blest  retreat; 
And  so,  with  not  a  friend  to  cheer  or  counsel  me,  was  thrown 
Amid  the  herd  of  Mammon's  slaves — and  found  myself  alone ! 

I  in  the  path  of  letters  toil'd — that  path  so  thickly  spread 

With  roses — ah !  the  thorns  are  felt  by  those  who  up  it  tread  ! 

The  bitter  pangs  of  "  hope  deferr'd"  were  mine,  in  the  pursuit ; 

And  long  I  trimm'd  and  pruned  the  vine,  while  others  pluck'd  the  fruit 

But  cheerly,  now,  my  vessel  glides : — the  quicksand  and  the  shoal 
Are  past ;  and  wreck-denouncing  waves  no  more  around  her  roll ; 
The  clouds  that  round  her  early  course  cast  doubt  and  gloom,  are  gone ; 
And  winds,  that  then  adversely  blew,  now  bear  me  bravely  on! 

Of  foes  whom,  in  my  uphill  road,  I  found  so  fierce  and  strong, 
A  few  have  seen,  and  deeply  felt,  they  did  me  grievous  wrong; 
And  others  have  been  swept  from  earth  by  Time's  unsparing  wing ; 
And  some,  if  they  retain  their  wrath,  now  lack  the  power  to  sting. 

My  cottage  hath  a  blazing  hearth — my  board  hath  ample  fare, 
And  healthful  cheeks  and  beaming  eyes  and  merry  hearts  are  there  : 
Their  mother's  smile  is  yet  as  sweet  as  when,  at  first,  it  told 
She  prized  a  fond  and  faithful  heart  above  the  worldling's  gold. 


( Joo ) 


THE    WARNING    VOICE.  101 

\nd  yet,  a  sad  and  solemn  thought  intrudes  upon  my  bliss, — 
Lord  !  what  am  I,  that  mine  should  be  such  happiness  as  this  I 
Why,  while  around  on  every  hand  far  worthier  ones  I  see 
Condemn'd  to  tread  life's  sterile  wastes,  bloom  flowers  like  these  for  me? 

M  Wherefore!" — a  spirit  answers  me: — "Thine  early  hopes  were  marr'd, 
In  mercy  to  thy  perill'd  soul, — and  still  thy  heart  was  hard; 
Then  he  who  laid  thy  burden  on  withdrew  His  chastening  rod, 
And  sought,  by  gentle  means,  to  win  the  sinner  to  his  God  ! 

"  But,  oh!  He  will  not  always  strive! — Then,  ere  the  day  be  spent, 
And  night — a  long  dread  night — steal  on,  repent,  vain  man,  repent ! 
Lest,  when  the  vineyard's  Lord  shall  come,  and  still  no  fruit  be  found, 
He  say,  '  Cut  down  this  barren  tree ! — why  cumbereth  it  the  ground ! '  " 

W.    H.    HARRISON. 


Qmnctn  £tfe. 


Behold, 

How  short  a  span 

Was  long  enough,  of  old, 

To  measure  out  the  life  of  man ! 

In  those  well-temper'd  days,  his  time  was  then 

Survey'd,  cast  up,  and  found  but  threescore  years  and  ten. 

How  SOON, 

Our  new-born  light 

Attains  to  full-aged  noon  ! 

And  this,  how  soon,  to  gray-hair'd  night ! 

We  spring,  we  bud,  we  blossom,  and  we  blast, 

Ere  we  count  our  days,  our  days  they  flee  so  fast! 

FRANCIS  QDARLE^. 


Sl)c  (Hljristtan'0  Deatl). 


Lift  not  thou  the  wailing  voice, 

Weep  not,  'tis  a  Christian  dieth, — 

Up,  where  blessed  saints  rejoice, 

Ransomed  now,  the  spirit  flieth ; 

High,  in  heaven's  own  light,  she  dwelleth, 

Full  the  song  of  triumph  swelleth ; 

Freed  from  earth,  and- earthly  failing, 

Lift  for  her  no  voice  of  wailing! 

Pour  not  thou  the  bitter  tear; 

Heaven  its  book  of  comfort  opeth ; 
Bids  thee  sorrow  not,  nor  fear, 

But,  as  one  who  alway  hopeth, 
Humbly  here  in  faith  relying, 
Peacefully  in  Jesus  dying, 
Heavenly  joy  her  eye  is  flushing, — 
Why  should  thine  with  tears  be  gushing1? 

They  who  die  in  Christ  are  blest, — 

Ours  be,  then,  no  thought  of  grieving! 

Sweetly  with  their  God  they  rest, 

All  their  toils  and  troubles  leaving: 

So  be  ours  the  faith  that  saveth, 

Hope  that  every  trial  braveth, 

Love  that  to  the  end  endureth, 

And,  through  Christ,  the  crown  secureth  ! 


G.    -W.    DO  ANTE. 


(102) 


Jhittmcitions  of  JJmmovtalttn. 


0  listen,  man  ! 
A  voice  within  us  speaks  the  startling  word, 
"  Man,  thou  shalt  never  die !"     Celestial  voices 
Hymn  it  around  our  souls  :  according  harps, 
By  angel  fingers  touched  when  the  mild  stars 
Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 
The  song  of  our  great  immortality  ! 
Thick,  clustering  orbs,  and  this  our  fair  domain, 
The  tall,  dark  mountains,  and  the  deep-toned  seas, 
Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 
— O  listen,  ye,  our  spirits !  drink  it  in 
From  all  the  air  !     'T  is  in  the  gentle  moonlight , 
'Tis  floating  in  day's  setting  glories;  night, 
Wrapped  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step 
Comes  to  our  bed  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears  ; 
Night  and  the  dawn,  bright  day  and  thoughtful  eve, 
All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse, 
As  one  vast,  mystic  instrument,  are  touched 
By  an  unseen,  living  Hand,  and  conscious  chords 
Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee  : 
— The  dying  hear  it ;  and  as  sounds  of  earth 
Grow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 
To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 

RICHARD    U.    DANA. 


(103) 


oII)c  Synagogue. 


I  saw  them  in  their  synagogue,  as  in  their  ancient  day, 
And  never  from  my  memory  the  scene  will  fade  away ; 
For  dazzling  on  my  vision  still,  the  latticed  galleries  shine 
With  Israel's  loveliest  daughters,  in  their  beauty  half  divine  ! 

It  is  the  holy  Sabbath  eve, — the  solitary  light 

Sheds,  mingled  with  the  hues  of  day,  a  lustre  nothing  bright; 

On  swarthy  brow  and  piercing  glance  it  falls  with  saddening  tinge, 

And  dimly  gilds  the  Pharisee's  phylacteries  and  fringe. 

The  two  leaved  doors  slide  slow  apart,  before  the  eastern  screen, 
As  rise  the  Hebrew  harmonies,  with  chanted  prayers  between, 
And  mid  the  tissued  veils  disclosed,  of  many  a  gorgeous  dye, 
Enveloped  in  their  jewel 'd  scarfs,  the  sacred  records  lie. 

Robed  in  his  sacerdotal  vest,  a  silvery  headed  man, 
With  voice  of  solemn  cadence  o'er  the  backward  letters  ran, 
And  often  yet  methinks  I  see  the  glow  and  power  that  sate 
Upon  his  face,  as  forth  he  spread  the  roll  immaculate. 

And  fervently  that  hour  I  pray'd,  that  from  the  mighty  scroll, 
Its  light,  in  burning  characters,  might  break  on  every  soul ; 
That  on  their  harden'd  hearts  the  veil  might  be  no  longer  dark, 
But  be  for  ever  rent  in  twain,  like  that  before  the  ark. 

(104) 


THE    SYNAGOGUE.  |().~, 

For  yet  the  tenfold  film  Bhall  fall,  0  Judafa  I  from  thy  light, 
And  every  eye  be  purged  to  read  thy  testimonies  right, 
When  thou,  with  all  Messiah's  signs  in  Christ  distinctly  seen, 
Shalt,  by  Jehovah's  nameless  name,  invoke  the  Nazarene. 

CROSWELL. 


I  like  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase,  which  calls 
The  burial-ground  God's-Acre!     It  is  just; 

It  consecrates  each  grave  within  its  walls, 

And  breathes  a  benison  o'er  the  sleeping  dust. 

God's-Acre !     Yes,  that  blessed  name  imparts 
Comfort  to  those,  who  in  the  grave  have  sown 

The  seed  that  they  had  garner'd  in  their  hearts, 
Their  bread  of  life,  alas!   no  more  their  own. 

Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  be  cast, 

In  the  sure  faith  that  we  shall  rise  again 
At  the  great  harvest,  when  the  archangel's  blast 

Shall  winnow,  like  a  fan,  the  chaff  and  grain. 

Then  shall  the  good  stand  in  immortal  bloom, 

In  the  fair  gardens  of  that  second  birth ; 
And  each  bright  blossom  mingle  its  perfume 

With  that  of  flowers,  which  never  bloom'd  on  earth. 

With  thy  rude  ploughshare,  Death,  turn  up  the  sod. 
And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we  sow; 

This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God. 

This  is  the  place,  where  human  harvests  grow  ! 

H.    W.    I.ONGFKIT.OW 


1  (Iljcmk  (ill)ee,  (5oir,  for  ttteal  ani>  iUoc. 


I  thank  Thee,  God,  for  all  I've  known 
Of  kindly  fortune,  health,  and  joy  ; 

And  quite  as  gratefully  I  own 
The  bitter  drops  of  life's  alloy. 

Oh  !  there  was  wisdom  in  the  blow 
That  wrung  the  sad  and  scalding  tear, 

That  laid  my  dearest  idol  low, 
And  left  my  bosom  lone  and  drear. 

I  thank  Thee,  God,  for  all  of  smart 
That  thou  hast  sent,  for  not  in  vain 

Has  been  the  heavy  aching  heart, 
The  sigh  of  grief,  the  throb  of  pain. 

What  if  my  cheek  had  ever  kept 
Its  healthful  colour,  glad  and  bright] — 

What  if  my  eyes  had  never  wept 
Throughout  a  long  and  sleepless  night1? 

Then,  then,  perchance,  my  soul  had  not 
Remember'd  there  were  paths  less  fair, 

And,  selfish  in  my  own  blest  lot, 
Ne'er  strove  to  soothe  another's  care. 

But  when  the  weight  of  sorrow  found 
My  spirit  prostrate  and  resign'd, 

The  anguish  of  the  bleeding  wound 
Taught  me  to  feel  for  all  mankind. 

Even  as  from  the  wounded  tree 

The  goodly,  precious  balm  will  pour; 

So  in  the  riven  heart  there  '11  be 
Mercy  that  never  flow'd  before. 


(  U3  ) 


THANK    THEE,    GOD,    FOB    WEAL    AND    WOK.  1  ()7 

'Tis  w.-ll  I"  lr.irn  that  sunny  hours 

May  quickly  change  to  mournful  shade; 
'Tis  well  to  prize  life's  Bcatter'd  flowers, 
Yet  be  prepared  to  see  them  fade. 

I  thank  Thee,  God,  for  weal  and  woe; 

And,  whatsoe'er  the  trial  be, 
'Twill  serve  to  wean  me  from  below, 

And  bring  my  spirit  nigher  Thee. 

ELIZA.    COOK. 


(JHijal)  feb  bn  Uaflcns. 

Sore  was  the  famine  throughout  all  the  bounds 
Of  Israel,  when  Elijah,  by  command 
Of  God,  journey'd  to  Cherith's  failing  brook. 
No  rain-drops  fall,  no  dew-fraught  cloud,  at  morn 
Or  closing  eve,  creeps  slowly  up  the  vale ; 
The  withering  herbage  dies ;  among  the  palms 
The  shrivell'd  leaves  send  to  the  summer  gale 
An  autumn  rustle  ;  no  sweet  songster's  lay 
Is  warbled  from  the  branches ;  scarce  is  heard 
The  rill's  faint  brawl.     The  prophet  looks  around 
And  trusts  in  God,  and  lays  his  silver  head 
Upon  the  flowerless  bank ;  serene  he  sleeps, 
Nor  wakes  till  dawning;  then,  with  hands  enclasp'd 
And  heavenward  face,  and  eyelids  closed,  he  prays 
To  Him  who  manna  on  the  desert  shower'd, 
To  him  who  from  the  rock  made  fountains  gush  : 
Entranced  the  man  of  God  remains  :  till  roused 
By  sound  of  wheeling  wings,  with  grateful  heart, 
He  sees  the  ravens  fearless  by  his  side 
Alight,  and  leave  the  heaven-provided  food. 

JAMBS    ORAUAMZ. 


2lbral)am  btsmtsstng  i^a^av. 


'  Thou  bidst  me  go !     Thou  sayst  thy  God 

Will  guide  my  course,  and  guard  my  child ; 
But  when  hath  human  footstep  trod 

In  safety  o'er  yon  trackless  •wild'? 
Calm  is  thy  brow,  thine  accents  mild  ; 

But  were  the  father  in  thy  heart, 
When  thus  thy  guiltless  offspring  smiled, 

Thou  couldst  not  breathe  the  word — '  Depart !' 

•  I  had  not  quail'd  beneath  that  word 

Could  I  have  wander'd  forth  alone  ; 
Then,  ruthless  man  !  thou  hadst  not  heard 

One  murmur'd  sigh,  one  whisper' d  moan  ! 
I  would  have  sought  some  lair  unknown, 

Where  Ishmael  had  not  seen  me  die ; 
Redeem'd  his  life-blood  with  my  own, 

And  welcomed  death  with  liberty. 

I  knew  that  I  was  born  a  slave, 

And  all  that  I  could  claim  of  thee 
Was  the  slave's  lot — the  scourge — the  grave ; 

But  sterner  yet  was  Heaven's  decree. 
Thy  Sarai  bade  thee  fix  on  me 

For  strange  espousals; — I  obey'd, 
For  choice  is  only  for  the  free ; — 

Then  spurn'd  the  wretch  herself  had  made ! 


(108) 


ABRAHAM     DISMIS8DIG     IIA(.AH.  ll!l 

i  But,  Heaven,  in  mercy,  gave  my  boy  ;— 

Oh,  then  my  bosom  seem'd  to  swell 
With  the  first  thrill  of  love— the  joy 

Which  words  were  all  in  vain  to  tell. 
Then  ceased  my  proud  heart  to  rebel ; 

Then  brighter  scenes  arose  to  view, 
Till,  as  I  look'd  on  Ishmael, 

I  learn'd  to  love  his  father  too! 

-To  Sarai  now  a  child  is  horn, 

Though  not  a  lovelier — and  on  me 
Falls  the  wild  storm  of  hate  and  scorn. 

/  did  not  curse  the  barren  tree, 
But  I  would  curse  her  now.- — May  she — 

Oh,  no!  my  heart  recalls  the  prayer, 
Though  'tis  her  voice  that  speaks  by  thee, 

To  doom  his  death,  and  my  despair ! 

"No  home  except  the  desert  den- 
No  shelter  but  the  cold  dark  sky- 
No  track,  no  sign,  no  voice  of  men- 
No  fresh  cool  fountain  murmuring  nigh — 
My  boy !  we  wander  forth  to  die. — 
But  come !  no  ruth  is  in  his  heart, 
No  love  is  glistening  in  his  eye : 

He  must  not  bid  us  twice,  ■  Depart !' 

"0  Thou,  who  saw'st  me  when  I  fled 
Of  old  from  Sarai's  threatening  brow. 
Note  Thou  the  bitter  tears  I  shed — 
Behold  the  pangs  that  rend  me  now. 


110 


ABRAHAM    DISMISSING    HAGAR. 

The  stranger's,  orphan's  God  art  Thou 

Be  ours  amidst  the  trackless  wild  ! 

Do  with  me  as  thou  wilt — 1  bow 

But  save,  oh,  save  my  guiltless  child  !" 


THOMAS   DAL3. 


®l)e  last  ihtbgmcnt. 

That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day, 
When  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away, 
What  power  shall  be  the  sinner's  stay? 
How  shall  he  meet  that  dreadful  day  ] 
When,  shrivelling  like  a  parched  scroll, 
The  flaming  heavens  together  roll ; 
When  louder  yet,  and  yet  more  dread, 
Swells  the  high  trump  that  wakes  the  dead  ! 

Oh !  on  that  day,  that  wrathful  day, 
When  man  to  judgment  wakes  from  clay, 
Be  God  the  trembling  sinner's  stay, 
Though  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away ! 

"WALTER  SCOTT. 


®l)c  Christian's  progress. 


Through  sorrow's  night,  and  danger's  path, 

Amid  the  deepening  gloom, 
We,  soldiers  of  an  injured  King, 

Are  marching  to  the  tomb. 

There,  when  the  turmoil  is  no  more, 

And  all  our  powers  decay, 
Our  cold  remains  in  solitude 

Shall  sleep  the  years  away. 

Our  labours  done,  securely  laid 

In  this  our  last  retreat, 
Unheeded  o'er  our  silent  dust 

The  storms  of  life  shall  beat. 

Yet  not  thus  lifeless,  thus  inane, 

The  vital  spark  shall  lie ; 
For  o'er  life's  wreck  that  spark  shall  rise, 

To  see  its  kindred  sky. 

These  ashes  too,  this  little  dust, 

Our  Father's  care  shall  keep, 
Till  the  last  angel  rise,  and  break 

The  long  and  dreary  sleep. 

Then  love's  soft  dew  o'er  every  eye 

Shall  shed  its  mildest  rays, 
And  the  long  silent  dust  shall  burst 

With  shouts  of  endless  praise. 

HENRY   EIREE    -WHITE. 
(Ill) 


iattl)  in  Qumble  Ctfe. 


Thy  triumphs,  Faith,  we  need  not  take 

Alone  from  the  blest  martyr's  stake; 

In  scenes  obscure  no  less  we  see 

That  Faith  is  a  reality  ; 

An  evidence  of  things  not  seen, 

A  substance  firm  whereon  to  lean. 

Go,  search  the  cottager's  low  room, 

The  day  scarce  piercing  through  the  gloom ; 

The  Christian  on  his  dying  bed, 

Unknown,  unlettered,  hardly  fed  ; 

No  flattering  witnesses  attend, 

To  tell  how  glorious  was  his  end ; 

Save  in  the  book  of  life,  his  name 

Unheard  ;  he  never  dreamt  of  fame  : 

No  human  consolation  near, 

No  voice  to  soothe,  no  friend  to  cheer ; 

Of  every  earthly  stay  bereft, 

And  nothing — but  his  Saviour — left. 

Fast  sinking  to  his  kindred  dust, 

The  word  of  life  is  still  his  trust; 

The  joy  God's  promises  impart 

Lies  like  a  cordial  at  his  heart; 

Unshaken  faith  its  strength  supplies, 

He  loves,  believes,  adores,  and  dies ! — 

HA.NKAH    MORI. 


(112) 


Jerusalem. 


Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,  how  glad  should  I  have  been, 

Could  I,  in  my  lone  wanderings,  thine  aged  walls  have  seen ! — 

Could  I  have  gazed  upon  the  dome,  above  thy  towers  that  swells, 
\ih1  heard,  as  evening  sun  went  down,  thy  parting  camels'  bells  : — 

Could  I  have  stood  on  Olivet,  where  once  the  Saviour  trod, 
And,  from  its  height,  look'd  down  upon  the  city  of  our  God  ! 

For  is  it  not,  Almighty  God,  the  holy  city  still, — 

Though  there  thy  prophets  walk  no  more,  that  crowns  Moriah's  hill  ? 

Thy  prophets  walk  no  more,  indeed,  the  streets  of  Salem  now, 
Nor  are  their  voices  lifted  up  on  Zion's  sadden'd  brow; 

Nor  are  their  garnish'd  sepulchres  with  pious  sorrow  kept, 
Where  once  the  same  Jerusalem,  that  kill'd  them,  came  and  wept. 

Hut  still  the  seed  of  Abraham  with  joy  upon  it  look, 
And  lay  their  ashes  at  its  feet,  that  Kedron's  feeble  brook 

Still  washes,  as  its  waters  creep  along  their  rocky  bed, 

And  Israel's  God  is  worshipp'd  yet  where  Zion  lifts  her  head. 

Yes; — every  morning,  as  the  day  breaks  over  Olivet, 

The  holy  name  of  Allah  comes  from  every  minaret; 

At  every  eve  the  mellow  call  floats  on  the  quiet  air, 

"  Lo,  God  is  God  !    Before  him  come,  before  him  come,  for  prayer!11 
8  ("3) 


114  JERUSALEM. 

I  know,  when  at  that  solemn  call  the  city  holds  her  breath, 
That  Omar's  mosque  hears  not  the  name  of  Him  of  Nazareth ! 

But  Abraham's  God  is  worshipp'd  there  alike  by  age  and  youth, 
And  worshipp'd, — hopeth  charity, — "in  spirit  and  in  truth." 

Yea,  from  that  day  when  Salem  knelt  and  bent  her  queenly  neck 
To  him  who  was,  at  once,  her  Priest  and  King, — Melchisedek, 

To  this,  when  Egypt's  Abraham  the  sceptre  and  the  sword 

Shakes  o'er  her  head,  her  holy  men  have  bow'd  before  the  Lord. 

Jerusalem,  I  would  have  seen  thy  precipices  steep, 

The  trees  of  palm  that  overhang  thy  gorges  dark  and  deep, 

The  goats  that  cling  along  thy  cliffs,  and  browse  upon  thy  rocks, 
Beneath  whose  shade  lie  down,  alike,  thy  shepherds  and  their  flocks. 

I  would  have  mused,  while  Night  hung  out  her  silver  lamp  so  pale, 
Beneath  those  ancient  olive  trees  that  grow  in  Kedron's  vale, 

Whose  foliage  from  the  pilgrim  hides  the  city's  wall  sublime, 
Whose  twisted  arms  and  gnarled  trunks  defy  the  scythe  of  Time. 

The  Garden  of  Gethsemane  those  aged  olive  trees 

Are  shading  yet,  and  in  their  shade  I  would  have  sought  the  breeze, 
That,  like  an  angel,  bathed  the  brow,  and  bore  to  heaven  the  prayer, 

Of  Jesus,  when,  in  agony,  He  sought  the  Father  there. 

I  would  have  gone  to  Calvary,  and,  where  the  Marys  stood 
Bewailing  loud  the  Crucified,  as  near  him  as  they  could, 

I  would  have  stood,  till  Night  o'er  earth  her  heavy  pall  had  thrown, 
And  thought  upon  my  Saviour's  cross,  and  learned  to  bear  my  own. 

Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,  thy  cross  thou  bearest  now! 

An  iron  yoke  is  on  thy  neck,  and  blood  is  on  thy  brow; 
Thy  golden  crown,  the  crown  of  truth,  thou  didst  reject  as  dross, 

And  now  thy  cross  is  on  thee  laid,  the  Crescent  is  thy  cross! 

It  was  not  mine,  nor  will  it  be,  to  see  the  bloody  rod 

That  scourgeth  thee,  and  long  hath  scourged,  thou  city  of  our  God  ! 

But  round  thy  hill  the  spirits  throng  of  all  thy  murder'd  seers, 
And  voices  that  went  up  from  it  are  ringing  in  my  ears, — 


JERUSALEM.  I  j  & 

# 

Went  up  that  day,  when  darkness  fell  from  all  thy  firmament, 

And  shrouded  thee  at  noon ;  ami  when  tliy  temple's  veil  was  rent, 

And  graves  of  holy  men,  that  touch'd  thy  feet,  gave  op  their  dead  : 

Jerusalem,  thy  prayer  is  heard,  His  blood  is  on  thy  head! 

JOHN   riERLONT. 


®l)c  Qttut  Song. 


In  the  silent  midnight  watches,  list — thy  bosom  door ! 
How  it  knocketh,  knocketh,  knocketh — knocketh  evermore  ! 
Say  not,  'tis  thy  pulse's  beating;  'tis  thy  heart  of  sin: 
Tis  thy  Saviour  knocketh,  crieth,  "  Rise,  and  let  me  in." 

Death  comes  down,  wTith  reckless  footstep,  to  the  hall  and  hut ; 
Think  you  Death  will  stand  a-knocking  when  the  door  is  shut? 
Jesus  waiteth,  waiteth,  waiteth,  but  the  door  is  fast! 
Grieved,  away  the  Saviour  goeth ;  Death  breaks  in  at  last. 

Then  'tis  thine  to  stand — entreating  Christ  to  let  thee  in, 
At  the  gate  of  heaven  beating,  wailing  for  thy  sin. 
Nay,  alas !  thou  foolish  virgin !  hast  thou  then  forgot, 
Jesus  waited  long  to  know  thee,  but  he  knows  thee  not? 

ARTHUR  CLEVELAND   COXE 


ttkep  not  for  Qer. 


Weep  not  for  her !     Her  span  was  like  the  sky, 
Whose  thousand  stars  shine  beautiful  and  bright, 

Like  flowers  that  know  not  what  it  is  to  die, 

Like  long  link'd  shadeless  months  of  polar  light, 

Like  music  floating  o'er  a  waveless  lake, 

While  echo  answers  from  the  flowery  brake, 
Weep  not  for  her ! 

Weep  not  for  her!     She  died  in  early  youth, 
Ere  hope  had  lost  its  rich  romantic  hues, 

When  human  bosoms  seem'd  the  homes  of  truth, 
And  earth  still  gleam'd  with  beauty's  radiant  dews. 

Her  summer  prime  waned  not  to  days  that  freeze, 

Her  wine  of  life  was  not  run  to  the  lees : 
Weep  not  for  her ! 

Weep  not  for  her  !     By  fleet  or  slow  decay 
It  never  grieved  her  bosom's  core  to  mark 

The  playmates  of  her  childhood  wane  away, 
Her  prospects  wither,  and  her  hopes  grow  dark. 

Translated  by  her  God  with  spirit  shriven, 

She  pass'd,  as  'twere  on  smiles,  from  earth  to  heaven : 
Weep  not  for  her ! 

(116) 


WEEP    NOT    FOR    III  R.  1  17 

Weep  not  for  her!     It  was  not  hers  to  feel 

The  miseries  that  corrode  amassing  years, 
'Gainst  dreams  of  baffled  Miss  the  heart  to  steel, 

To  wander  sad  down  age's  vale  of  tears, 
ks  whirl  the  wither'd  leaves  from  friendship's  tree, 
And  on  earth's  wintry  wold  alone  to  be : 
Weep  not  for  her ! 

Weep  not  for  her !     She  is  an  angel  now, 

And  treads  the  sapphire  floors  of  Paradise, 
All  darkness  wiped  from  her  refulgent  brow, 

Sin,  sorrow,  suffering,  banish'd  from  her  eyes; 
Victorious  over  death,  to  her  appears 
The  vista'd  joys  of  heaven's  eternal  years  : 
Weep  not  for  her ! 

Weep  not  for  her !     Her  memory  is  the  shrine 
Of  pleasant  thoughts,  soft  as  the  scent  of  flowers, 

Calm  as  on  windless  eve  the  sun's  decline, 
Sweet  as  the  song  of  birds  among  the  bowers, 

Rich  as  a  rainbow  with  its  hues  of  light, 

Pure  as  the  moonshine  of  an  autumn  night: 
Weep  not  for  her  ! 

Weep  not  for  her!     There  is  no  cause  of  wo, 

But  rather  nerve  the  spirit  that  it  walk 
Unshrinking  o'er  the  thorny  path  below, 

And  from  earth's  low  defilements  keep  thee  back. 
So,  when  a  few  fleet  swerving  years  have  flown, 
She'll  meet  thee  at  heaven's  gate — and  lead  thee  on  : 
Weep  not  for  her ! 

D.    U.    MOIK 


<&ob  an  unfailing  Refuge. 


The  smoothest  seas  will  sometimes  prove 

To  the  confiding  bark  untrue; 
And  if  she  trust  the  stars  above, 

They  can  be  treacherous  too. 

The  umbrageous  oak,  in  pomp  outspread, 
Full  oft,  when  storms  the  welkin  rend, 

Draws  lightning  down  upon  the  head 
It  promised  to  defend. 

But  thou  art  true,  incarnate  Lord ! 

Who  didst  vouchsafe  for  man  to  die ; 
Thy  smile  is  sure,  thy  plighted  word 

No  change  can  falsify  ! 

I  bent  before  thy  gracious  throne, 

And  ask'd  for  peace  with  suppliant  knee ; 

And  peace  was  given — nor  peace  alone, 
But  faith,  and  hope,  and  ecstasy ! 

WORDSWORTH. 


(118) 


Song  of  tl)c  3cm 


KING  of  kings!  and  Lord  of  lords! 
Thus  we  move,  our  sad  steps  liming 
To  our  cymbals'  feeblest  chiming, 
Where  thy  house  its  rest  acconU. 
Chased  and  wounded  birds  are  we, 
Through  the  dark  air  fled  to  thee  ; 
To  the  shadow  of  thy  wings, 
Lord  of  lords  !  and  King  of  kings  ! 

Behold,  0  Lord,  the  heathen  tread 

The  branches  of  thy  fruitful  vine, 
That  its  luxurious  tendrils  spread 
O'er  all  the  hills  of  Palestine. 
And  now  the  wild  boar  comes  to  waste 
Even  us,  the  greenest  boughs  and  last, 
That,  drinking  of  thy  choicest  dew, 
On  Zion's  hill,  in  beauty  grew. 

No !  by  the  marvels  of  thine  hand, 
Thou  wilt  save  thy  chosen  land  ; 
By  all  thine  ancient  mercies  shown, 
By  all  our  fathers'  foes  o'erthrown  ; 
By  the  Egyptian's  car-borne  host, 
Scatter'd  on  the  Red  Sea  coast ; 
By  that  wide  and  bloodless  slaughter 
Underneath  the  drowning  water. 


(ll!») 


120  SONG    OF    THE    JEWS. 

Like  us  in  utter  helplessness, 
In  their  last  and  worst  distress, 
On  the  sand  and  sea-weed  lying-, 
Israel  pour'd  her  doleful  sighing  ; 
While  before  the  deep  sea  flow'd, 
And  behind  fierce  Egypt  rode, 
To  their  fathers'  God  they  pray'd. 
To  the  Lord  of  Hosts  for  aid. 

On  the  margin  of  the  flood 

With  lifted  rod  the  Prophet  stood  ; 

And  the  summon'd  east  wind  blew, 

And  aside  it  sternly  threw 

The  gather'd  waves,  that  took  their  stand, 

Like  crystal  rocks,  on  either  hand, 

Or  walls  of  sea-green  marble  piled 

Round  some  irregular  city  wild. 

Then  the  light  of  morning  lay 
On  the  wonder-paved  way, 
Where  the  treasures  of  the  deep 
In  their  caves  of  coral  sleep. 
The  profound  abysses,  where 
Was  never  sound  from  upper  air, 
Rang  with  Israel's  chanted  words, 
King  of  kings  !  and  Lord  of  lords  ! 

Then  with  bow  and  banner  glancing, 
On  exulting  Egypt  came, 

With  her  chosen  horsemen  prancing 
And  her  cars  on  wheels  of  flame, 

In  a  rich  and  boastful  ring, 

All  around  her  furious  king. 


SONG    OF    THE    JEWS.  L21 

Hut  the  Lord  from  out  his  cloud, 
The  Lord  look'd  down  upon  the  proud  ; 
And  the  host  drave  heavily 
Down  the  deep  bosom  of  the  sea. 

With  a  quick  and  sudden  swell 
Prone  the  liquid  ramparts  fell; 
Over  horse,  and  over  car, 
Over  every  man  of  war, 
Over  Pharaoh's  crown  of  gold 
The  loud  thundering  billows  roll'd. 

As  the  level  waters  spread 
Down  they  sank,  they  sank  like  lead, 
Down  sank  without  cry  or  groan, 
And  the  morning  sun  that  shone 
On  myriads  of  bright  armed  men, 

Its  meridian  radiance  then 
Cast  on  a  wide  sea,  heaving  as  of  yore, 
Against  a  silent,  solitary  shore. 

MTT.MAM 


Consolations  of  Religion  to  tlje  Jloor 


There  is  a  mourner,  and  her  heart  is  broken ; 

She  is  a  widow;  she  is  old  and  poor; 
Her  only  hope  is  in  that  sacred  token 

Of  peaceful  happiness  when  life  is  o'er; 
She  asks  nor  wealth  nor  pleasure,  begs  no  more 

Than  heaven's  delightful  volume,  and  the  sight 
Of  her  Redeemer.     Skeptics,  would  you  pour 

Your  blasting  vials  on  her  head,  and  blight 
Sharon's  sweet  rose,  that  blooms  and  charms  her  being's  night 

She  lives  in  her  affections  ;  for  the  grave 

Has  closed  upon  her  husband,  children;  all 
Her  hopes  are  with  the  arm  she  trusts  will  save 

Her  treasured  jewels;  though  her  views  are  small, 
Though  she  has  never  mounted  high  to  fall 

And  writhe  in  her  debasement,  yet  the  spring 
Of  her  meek,  tender  feelings,  cannot  pall 

Her  unperverted  palate,  but  will  bring 
A  joy  without  regret,  a  bliss  that  has  no  sting. 

Even  as  a  fountain,  whose  unsullied  wave 

Wells  in  the  pathless  valley,  flowing  o'er 
With  silent  waters,  kissing,  as  they  lave, 

The  pebbles  with  light  rippling,  and  the  shore 

(  122  ) 


CONSOLATIONS  OF  RELIGION   TO  THE  POOR.  \2i 

Of  matted  grass  and  flowers — so  softly  pour 

The  breathings  of  net  bosom,  when  she  prmys, 
Low-bow'd,  before  her  Maker;  then  no  more 

She  mosea  on  the  griefs  of  former  days; 
Her  full  heart  melts,  and  flows  in  heaven's  dissolving  rays. 

And  faith  can  see  a  new  world,  and  the  I 

Of  saints  look  pity  on  her;  Death  will  come — 
A  few  short  moments  over,  and  the  prize 

Of  peace  eternal  waits  her,  and  the  tomb 
Becomes  her  fondest  pillow;  all  its  gloom 

Is  scatter'd.     What  a  meeting  there  will  be 
To  her  and  all  she  loved  here !  and  the  bloom 

Of  new  life  from  those  cheeks  shall  never  flee; 
Theirs  is  the  health  which  lasts  through  all  eternity. 

PIROIVA.L. 


<23*ccllenn3  of  Christ. 


He  is  a  path,  if  any  be  misled  ; 

He  is  a  robe,  if  any  naked  be ; 
If  any  chance  to  hunger,  he  is  bread  ; 
If  any  be  a  bondman,  he  is  free ; 
If  any  be  but  weak,  how  strong  is  he ! 
To  dead  men  life  he  is,  to  sick  men  health  ; 
To  blind  men  sight,  and  to  the  needy  wealth— 
A  pleasure  without  loss,  a  treasure  without  stealth. 

:tcher 


itkcp  not  for  l)im  tljat  bictl). 


'  Weep  ye  not  for  the  dead,  neither  bemoan  him;  but  weep  sore  for  him  that  goeth  away,  for 
hie  shall  return  no  more,  nor  see  his  native  country." — Jeremiah  xxii.  ]0. 


Weep  not  for  him  that  dieth — 

For  he  sleeps,  and  is  at  rest; 
And  the  couch  whereon  he  lieth 

Is  the  green  earth's  quiet  breast; 
But  weep  for  him  who  pineth 

On  a  far  land's  hateful  shore, 
Who  wearily  declineth 

Where  ye  see  his  face  no  more  ! 

Weep  not  for  him  that  dieth, 

For  friends  are  round  his  bed, 
And  many  a  young  lip  sigheth 

When  they  name  the  early  dead: 
But  weep  for  him  that  liveth 

Where  none  will  know  or  care, 
When  the  groan  his  faint  heart  giveth 

Is  the  last  sigh  of  despair. 

Weep  not  for  him  that  dieth, 

For  his  struggling  soul  is  free, 
And  the  world  from  which  it  flieth 

Is  a  world  of  misery  ; 
But  weep  for  him  that  weareth 

The  captive's  galling  chain: 
To  the  agony  he  beareth, 

Death  were  but  little  pain. 

(124) 


WEEP    NOT    FUR    HIM    THAT    DIETH.  126 

VVeep  not  for  him  that  dieth, 

For  he  hath  ceased  from  tears, 
And  a  voice  to  his  replieth 

Which  he  hath  not  heard  for  years ; 
But  weep  for  him  who  weepeth 

On  that  cold  land's  cruel  shore — 
But  blest  is  he  that  sleepeth, — 

Weep  for  the  dead  no  more  ! 

MRS.  NORTON. 


Cljaritn. 


Speak  kindly,  Oh,  speak  soothingly 

To  him  whose  hopes  are  crossed, 
Whose  blessed  trust  in  human  love 

Was  early,  early  lost  ; 
For  wearily — how  wearily  ! 

Drags  life,  if  love  depart; 
Oh  !  let  the  balm  of  gentle  words 

Fall  on  the  smitten  heart! 

Go  gladly,  with  true  sympathy, 

Where  want's  pale  victims  pine, 
And  bid  life's  sweetest  smiles  again 

Along  their  pathway  shine. 
Oh,  heavily  doth  poverty 

Man's  nobler  instincts  bind  ; 
Yet  sever  not  that  chain,  to  cast 

A  sadder  on  the  mind. 

LTJELLA  J.    CASE. 


®l)e  (ffall  of  JDatritr. 


LATEST  born  of  Jesse's  race, 
Wonder  lights  thy  bashful  face, 
While  the  prophet's  gifted  oil 
Seals  thee  for  a  path  of  toil. 
We,  thy  angels,  circling  round  thee, 
Ne'er  shall  find  thee  as  we  found  thee, 
When  thy  faith  first  brought  us  near 
In  thy  lion-fight  severe. 

Go  !  and  mid  thy  flocks  awhile 
At  thy  doom  of  greatness  smile; 
Bold  to  bear  God's  heaviest  load, 
Dimly  guessing  of  the  road, — 
Rocky  road,  and  scarce-ascended, 
Though  thy  foot  be  angel-tended ! 


Double  praise  thou  shalt  attain, 
In  royal  court  and  battle- plain: 
Then  comes  heart-ache,  care,  distress, 
Blighted  hope,  and  loneliness; 
Wounds  from  friend  and  gifts  from  foe 
Dizzied  faith,  and  guilt,  and  woe, 
Loftiest  aims  by  earth  defiled, 
Gleams  of  wisdom  sin-beguiled, 
Sated  power's  tyrannic  mood, 
Counsels  shared  with  men  of  blood, 
Sad  success,  parental  tears, 
And  a  dreary  gift  of  years. 


(  126  ) 


THE    CALL    OF    I)A\  ID. 

Strange,  that  guileless  race  and  form 
To  lavish  on  the  scarring  storm ! 
Yet  we  take  thee  in  thy  blindness, 

And  wo  harass  thee  in  kindness; 
Little  chary  of  thy  fame, — 
Dust  unborn  may  bless  or  blame, — 
But  we  mould  thee  for  the  root 
Of  man's  promised  healing  fruit, 
And  we  mould  thee  hence  to  rise 
As  our  brother  to  the  skies. 


Confidence  it!  Qcchjcu. 


It  is  in  vain  the  weary  spirit  strives 

With  that  which  doth  consume  it; — there  is  born 
A  strength  from  suffering,  which  can  laugh  to  scorn 

The  stroke  of  sorrow,  even  though  it  rives 

Our  very  heart-strings; — but  the  grief  that  lives 
For  ever  in  the  heart,  and  day  by  day 
Wastes  the  soul's  high-wrought  energies  away, 

And  wears  the  lofty  spirit  down,  and  gives 
Its  own  dark  hue  to  life,  oh !  who  can  bear? 
Yet,  as  the  black  and  threatening  tempests  bring 

New  fragrance  to  earth's  flowers,  and  tints  more  fair, 
So,  beneath  sorrow's  nurture,  virtues  spring. 

Youth,  health,  and  hope,  may  fade,  but  there  is  left 

A  soul  that  trusts  in  Heaven,  though  thus  of  all  bereft. 

E'J'Ji    C.    EMBURY. 


Chap,  xxxiii.  30—33. 

They  hear  Thee  not,  O  God  !  nor  see ; 

Beneath  Thy  rod  they  mock  at  Thee  ; 

The  princes  of  our  ancient  line 

Lie  drunken  with  Assyrian  wine ; 

The  priests  around  the  altar  speak 

The  false  words  which  their  hearers  seek ; 

And  hymns  which  Chaldea's  wanton  maids 

Have  sung  in  Dura's  idol-shades, 

Are  with  the  Levites'  chant  ascending, 

With  Zion's  holiest  anthems  blending! 

On  Israel's  bleeding  bosom  set, 

The  heathen  heel  is  crushing  yet ; 

The  towers  upon  her  holy  hill 

Echo  Chaldean  footsteps  still. 

Our  boasted  shrines — who  weeps  for  them  ] 

Who  mourneth  for  Jerusalem  ? 

WTho  turneth  from  his  gains  away  1 

Whose  knee  with  mine  is  bowed  to  pray  1 

Who,  leaving  feast  and  purpling  cup, 

Takes  Zion's  lamentation  up  1 

A  sad  and  thoughtful  youth,  I  went 
With  Israel's  early  banishment ; 
And  where  the  sullen  Chebar  crept, 
The  ritual  of  my  fathers  kept. 


(  l*i ) 


EZ1KIEL.  129 


The  water  tor  the  trench  I  drew, 
The  firstling  of  the  flock  I  Blew; 

And,  Btanding  at  the  altar's  side, 
I  shared  the  Lcvites'  lingering  pride, 

That  still  amidst  her  mocking  foes, 
The  smoke  of  Zion's  offering  rose. 

In  sudden  whirlwind,  cloud  and  flame, 
The  spirit  of  the  Highest  came! 
Before  mine  eyes  a  vision  pass'd, 
A  glory  terrible  and  vast ; 
With  dreadful  eyes  of  living  things, 
And  sounding  sweep  of  angel  wings, 
With  circling  light  and  sapphire  throne, 
And  flame-like  form  of  One  thereon, 
And  voice  of  that  dread  Likeness  sent 
Down  from  the  crystal  firmament ! 

The  burden  of  a  Prophet's  power 
Fell  on  me  in  that  fearful  hour! 
From  off  unutterable  woes 
The  curtain  of  the  future  rose ; 
I  saw  far  down  the  coming  time 
The  fiery  chastisement  of  crime  ; 
With  noise  of  mingling  hosts,  and  jar 
Of  falling  towers  and  shouts  of  war, 
I  saw  the  nations  rise  and  full, 
Like  fire-gleams  on  my  tent's  white  wal 


1 30  EZEKIEL. 

In  dream  and  trance,  I  saw  the  slain 
Of  Egypt  heap'd  like  harvest  grain ; 
I  saw  the  walls  of  sea-born  Tyre 
Swept  over  by  the  spoiler's  fire ; 
And  heard  the  low,  expiring  moan 
Of  Edom  on  his  rocky  throne ; 
And,  wo  is  me !  the  wild  lament 
From  Zion's  desolation  sent; 
And  felt  within  my  heart  each  blow 
Which  laid  her  holy  places  low. 

In  bonds  and  sorrow,  day  by  day. 

Before  the  pictured  tile  I  lay ; 

And  there,  as  in  a  mirror,  saw 

The  coming  of  Assyria's  war, 

Her  swarthy  lines  of  spearmen  pass 

Like  locusts  through  Bethhoron's  grass: 

I  saw  them  draw  their  stormy  hem 

Of  battle  round  Jerusalem ; 

And,  listening,  heard  the  Hebrew  wail 

Blend  with  the  victor-trump  of  Baal ! 

Who  trembled  at  my  warning  word] 
Who  own'd  the  prophet  of  the  Lord  ] 
How  mock'd  the  rude — how  scofF'd  the  vih 
How  stung  the  Levite's  scornful  smile, 
As  o'er  my  spirit,  dark  and  slow, 
The  shadow  crept  of  Israel's  wo, 


EZEKIEL.  l.jl 


As  if  the  angel's  mournful  roll 
Had  left  its  record  on  my  soul, 
And  traced  in  lines  of  darkness  there 
The  picture  of  its  own  despair! 

Yet,  even  at  the  hour  I  feel 
My  lips  in  prophecy  unseal, 
Prince,  priest,  and  Levite  gather  near, 
And  Salem's  daughters  haste  to  hear, 
On  Chebar's  waste  and  alien  shore, 
The  harp  of  Judah  swept  once  more. 
They  listen,  as  in  Babel's  throng 
The  Chaldeans  to  the  dancer's  song, 
Or  wild  Sabbeka's  stormy  play, 
As  careless  and  as  vain  as  they. 

And  thus,  oh,  Prophet-Bard  of  old, 
Hast  thou  thy  tale  of  sorrow  told ! 
The  same  which  earth's  unwelcome  seers 
Have  felt  in  all  succeeding  years. 
Sport  of  the  changeful  multitude, 
Nor  calmly  heard  nor  understood, 
Their  song  has  seemed  a  trick  of  art, 
Their  warnings  but  the  actor's  part. 
With  bonds,  and  seorn,  and  evil  will, 
The  world  requites  its  prophets  still. 

So  was  it  when  the  Holy  One 
The  garments  of  the  flesh  put  on ! 


132  EZEKIEL. 

Men  follow'd  where  the  Highest  led 
For  common  gifts  of  daily  bread, 
And  gross  of  ear,  of  vision  dim, 
Own'd  not  the  God-like  power  of  Him. 
Vain  as  a  dreamer's  words  to  them 
His  wail  above  Jerusalem, 
And  meaningless  the  watch  he  kept 
Through  which  his  weak  disciples  slept. 

Yet  shrink  not  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art, 
For  God's  great  purpose  set  apart, 
Before  whose  far  discerning  eyes 
The  Future  as  the  Present  lies ! 
Beyond  the  narrow-bounded  age 
Stretches  thy  prophet-heritage, 
Through  Heaven's  dim  spaces  angel-trod, 
Through  arches  round  the  throne  of  God ! 
Thy  audience,  worlds ! — all  Time  to  be 
The  witness  of  the  truth  in  thee ! 


J.  G.  WH1TTIEE. 


8l)c  Reaper  anb  tl)e  ilotuers. 


There  is  a  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death, 

And,  with  his  sickle  keen, 
He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a  breath, 

And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 
'Shall  I  have  nought  that  is  fair,"  saith  he: 
"  Have  nought  but  the  bearded  grain  1 
Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  me, 

I  will  give  them  all  back  again." 
He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes, 

He  kiss'd  their  drooping  leaves; 
It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 

He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 
'  My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  gay," 

The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled  : 
Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 

Where  he  was  once  a  child. 
They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 

Transplanted  by  my  care, 
And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white, 

These  sacred  blossoms  wear." 
And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 

The  flowers  she  most  did  love ; 
She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 

In  the  fields  of  light  above. 
Oh,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath, 

The  Reaper  came  that  day; 
'Twas  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth, 

And  took  the  flowers  away. 

H.  W    LONGFELLOW 
t  133 


ollje  UUtoHtt. 


The  chariot!  the  chariot!  its  wheels  roll  in  fire, 

As  the  Lord  cometh  down  in  the  pomp  of  his  ire ; 

Self-moving,  it  drives  on  its  pathway  of  cloud, 

And  the  heavens  with  the  burden  of  Godhead  are  bowM. 

The  glory !  the  glory !  around  him  are  pour'd 
The  myriads  of  angels  that  wait  on  the  Lord  ; 
And  the  glorified  saints  and  the  martyrs  are  there, 
And  all  who  the  palm  leaves  of  victory  wear. 

The  trumpet !  the  trumpet !  the  dead  have  all  heard  : 
Lo,  the  depths  of  the  stone-cover'd  monuments  stirr'd  ! 
From  ocean  and  earth,  from  the  south  pole  and  north, 
Lo,  the  vast  generation  of  ages  come  forth. 

The  judgment!  the  judgment!  the  thrones  are  all  set, 
Where  the  Lamb  and  the  white-vested  elders  are  met ; 
All  flesh  is  at  once  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord, 
And  the  doom  of  eternity  hangs  on  his  word. 

O  mercy !  O  mercy  !  look  down  from  above, 
Redeemer,  on  us,  thy  sad  children,  with  love : 
When  beneath  to  their  darkness  the  wicked  are  driven, 
May  our  justified  souls  find  a  welcome  in  heaven. 

miLMAN. 
(134) 


ffiljc  Departed. 


The  departed  !  the  departed !  they  visit  us  in  dreams, 
And  they  glide  above  our  memories  like  shadows  over  streams; 
But  where  the  cheerful  lights  of  home  in  constant  lustre  burn, 
The  departed,  the  departed  can  never  more  return ! 

The  good,  the  brave,  the  beautiful,  how  dreamless  is  their  sleep, 
Where  rolls  the  dirge-like  music  of  the  ever-tossing  deep ! 
Or  where  the  hurrying  night-winds  pale  winter's  robes  have  spread 
Above  their  narrow  palaces,  in  the  cities  of  the  dead. 

I  look  around  and  feel  the  awe  of  one  who  walks  alone 
Among  the  wrecks  of  former  days,  in  mournful  ruin  strown; 
I  start  to  hear  the  stirring  sounds  among  the  cypress  trees, 
For  the  voice  of  the  departed  is  borne  upon  the  breeze. 

That  solemn  voice !  it  mingles  with  each  free  and  careless  strain ; 
I  scarce  can  think  earth's  minstrelsy  will  cheer  my  heart  again. 
The  melody  of  summer  waves,  the  thrilling  notes  of  birds, 
Can  never  be  so  dear  to  me  as  their  rcmember'd  words. 

I  sometimes  dream  their  pleasant  smiles  still  on  me  sweetly  fall, 
Their  tones  of  love  I  faintly  hear  my  name  in  sadness  call. 
I  know  that  they  are  happy,  with  their  angel-plumage  on, 
But  my  heart  is  very  desolate  to  think  that  they  are  gone. 

PARK  BENJAMIN. 
(135) 


<£lje  flarteir  Spirit 


TB   OiKKOT  TELL   WHJSNCE   IT  COMBTH. 
AilD    WH1TEE3,  IT  GOETH." 


MYSTERIOUS  in  its  birth, 
And  viewless  as  the  blast; 
Where  hath  the  spirit  fled  from  earth, 
For  ever  past? 

I  ask  the  grave  below — 

It  keeps  the  secret  well; 
I  call  upon  the  heavens  to  show — 
They  will  not  tell. 

Of  earth's  remotest  strand, 

Are  tales  and  tidings  known; 
But  from  the  spirit's  distant  land, 
Returneth  none. 

Winds  waft  the  breath  of  flowers 

To  wanderer's  o'er  the  wave, 
But  no  message  from  the  bowers 
Beyond  the  grave. 

Proud  Science  scales  the  skies, 

From  star  to  star  to  roam, 
But  reacheth  not  the  shore  where  lies 
The  spirit's  home. 

Impervious  shadows  hide 

This  mystery  of  Heaven; 
But,  where  all  knowledge  is  denied, 
To  hope  is  given ! 


JOHN   UALCOI. 

(136) 


Silent  Portion. 


The  Lord  is  in  his  ho\y  temple  ;— let  all  the  earth  keep  silence  before  him. 

The  Lord  is  on  his  holy  throne, 

He  sits  in  kingly  state; 
Let  those  who  for  his  favour  seek, 

In  humble  silence  wait. 

Your  sorrows  to  his  eye  are  known, 

Your  secret  motives  clear, 
It  needeth  not  the  pomp  of  words 

To  pour  them  on  his  ear. 

Doth  Death  thy  bosom's  cell  invade1? 

Yield  up  thy  flower  of  grass: 
Swells  the  world's  wrathful  billow  high  1 

Bow  down,  and  let  it  pass. 

Press  not  thy  purpose  on  thy  God, 

Urge  not  thine  erring  will, 
Nor  dictate  to  the  Eternal  mind, 

Nor  doubt  thy  Maker's  skill. 

True  prayer  is  not  the  noisy  sound 

That  clamorous  lips  repeat, 
But  the  deep  silence  of  a  soul 

That  clasps  Jehovah's  feet. 


(  137  'I 


(Hljrtst  blessing  tl)e  Brcab. 


"  This  do  in  remembrance  of  me. 

"  This  cup  is  the  new  testament  in  my  blood,  which  is  shed  for  you."— St  Luke  xxii.  19,  20. 

"And  as  they  were  eating,  Jesus  took  bread,  and  blessed  it,  and  brake  it,  and  gave  it  to  the 
disciples,  and  said,  Take,  eat ;  this  is  my  body. 

"And  he  took  the  cup,  and  gave  thanks,  and  gave  it  to  them,  saying,  Drink  ye  all  of  it  : 

"  For  this  is  my  blood  of  the  new  testament,  which  is  shed  for  many  for  the  remission  of  sins. 

"But  I  say  unto  you,  I  will  not  drink  henceforth  of  this  fruit  of  the  vine,  until  that  day  when 
[  drink  it  new  with  you  in  my  Father's  kingdom."— St.  Matthew  xxvi.  26,  29. 

Bow  thee  to  earth,  and  from  thee  cast 

All  stubbornness  of  human  will ; 
Then  dare  to  drink  the  sacred  cup 

Thy  God  and  Saviour  died  to  fill. 

If  thou  art  humble  as  a  child, 

When  lisping  at  his  mother's  knee 
His  first  meek  words  of  earnest  prayer, 

That  sacred  cup  may  be  for  thee. 

But  if  within  thy  sinful  heart 

Lurk  earthly  crime  or  earthly  care ; 
If  hate,  which  broods  upon  the  past, 

Or  pleasure's  feverish  dream,  be  there; 

If  thou  against  the  widow's  prayer, 
Or  orphan's  cry,  hast  closed  thine  ear; 

In  mercy  to  thyself,  forbear, 

Drink  not  thine  own  destruction  here  : 

But  from  thee  put  all  thoughts  of  earth, 
As  erst  from  Israel's  camp  were  flung 

Each  worldly  and  unholy  thing, 
To  which  the  secret  sinner  clung. 

Come  with  thy  guilt  new-washed  in  tears, 

Thy  spirit  raised  in  faith  above ; 
Then  drink,  and  so  thy  soul  shall  live, 

Thy  Saviour's  blood — thy  Saviour's  love. 

MISS    LANDON. 

(138) 


Jnfctnt  iditt). 


Radiant  with  his  spirit's  light 
Was  the  little  beauteous  child, 

Sporting  round  a  fountain  bright, 
Playing  through  the  flowerets  wild. 

Where  they  grew  he  lightly  stepped, 
Cautious  not  a  leaf  to  crush  ; 

Then  about  the  fount  he  leaped, 
Shouting  at  its  merry  gush. 

While  the  sparkling  waters  welled, 
Laughing  as  they  bubbled  up, 

In  his  lily  hands  he  held, 
Closely  clasped,  a  silver  cup. 

Now  he  put  it  forth  to  fill ; 

Then  he  bore  it  to  the  flowers, 
Through  his  fingers  there  to  spill 

What  it  held,  in  mimic  showers. 

"  Open,  pretty  buds,"  said  he, 

"  Open  to  the  air  and  sun  ; 
So,  to-morrow  I  may  see 

What  my  rain  to-day  has  done. 

"Yes,  you  will,  you  will,  I  know, 
For  the  drink  I  give  you  now, 

Burst  your  little  cups,  and  blow, 

When  I'm  gone,  and  can't  tell  how  ! 


(139) 


140  INFANT   FAITH. 

"  Oh  !  I  wish  I  could  but  see 
How  God's  finger  touches  you, 

When  your  sides  unclasp,  and  free, 
Let  your  leaves  and  odors  through. 

"  I  would  watch  you  all  the  night, 
Nor  in  darkness  be  afraid, 

Only  once  to  see  aright 

How  a  beauteous  flower  is  made. 

"  Now  remember !  I  shall  come 
In  the  morning  from  my  bed, 

Here  to  find  among  you  some 

With  jTour  brightest  colours  spread  !" 

To  his  buds  he  hastened  out, 
At  the  dewy  morning  hour, 

Crying,  with  a  joyous  shout, 

"  God  has  made  of  each  a  flower !" 

Precious  must  the  ready  faith 

Of  the  little  children  be, 
In  the  sight  of  Him,  who  saith, 

"  Suffer  them  to  come  to  me." 

Answered  by  the  smile  of  heaven, 
Is  the  infant's  offering  found, 

Though  "  a  cup  of  water  given," 
Even  to  the  thirsty  ground. 

MISS    H.    F.    GOULD. 


fill)  <£I)UD. 


I  cannot  make  him  dead  !  his  fair  sunshiny  head 
Is  ever  bounding  round  my  study  chair; 

Yet,  when  my  eyes,  now  dim  with  tears,  I  turn  to  him, 
The  vision  vanishes — he  is  not  there ! 

I  walk  my  parlour  iloor,  and,  through  the  open  door, 

I  hear  a  footfall  on  the  chamber  stair : 
I'm  stepping  toward  the  hall  to  give  the  boy  a  call ; 

And  then  bethink  me  that — he  is  not  there ! 

I  thrid  the  crowded  street,  a  satchell'd  lad  I  meet, 
With  the  same  beaming  eyes  and  colour'd  hair  : 

And,  as  he's  running  by,  follow  him  with  my  eye, 
Scarcely  believing  that — he  is  not  there ! 

I  know  his  face  is  hid  under  the  coffin  lid; 

Closed  are  his  eyes,  cold  is  his  forehead  fair ; 
My  hand  that  marble  felt;  o'er  it  in  prayer  I  knelt; 

Yet  my  heart  whispers  that — he  is  not  there ! 

I  cannot  make  him  dead  !  when  passing  by  the  bed, 
So  long  watch'd  over  with  parental  care, 

My  spirit  and  my  eye  seek  it  inquiringly, 
Before  the  thought  comes  that — he  is  not  there ! 


(141) 


142  MY   CHILD. 

When  at  the  cool,  gray  break  of  day,  from  sleep  I  wake, 
With  my  first  breathing  of  the  morning  air, 

My  soul  goes  up,  with  joy,  to  Him  who  gave  my  boy: 
Then  comes  the  sad  thought  that — he  is  not  there ! 

When  at  the  day's  calm  close,  before  we  seek  repose, 
I'm  with  his  mother,  offering  up  our  prayer : 

Whate'er  I  may  be  saying,  I  am,  in  spirit,  praying 
For  our  boy's  spirit,  though — he  is  not  there ! 

Not  there  ! — Where,  then,  is  he?  The  form  I  used  to  see 
Was  but  the  raiment  that  he  used  to  wear. 

The  grave,  that  now  doth  press  upon  that  cast-off  dress, 
Is  but  his  wardrobe  lock'd ! — he  is  not  there ! 

He  lives ! — In  all  the  past,  he  lives ;  nor,  to  the  last, 

Of  seeing  him  again  will  I  despair ; 
In  dreams  I  see  him  now;  and,  on  his  angel  brow, 

I  see  it  written,  "Thou  shalt  see  me  there .'" 

Yes,  we  all  live  to  God  !    Father,  thy  chastening  rod 
So  help  us,  thine  afflicted  ones,  to  bear, 

That,  in  the  spirit-land,  meeting  at  thy  right  hand, 
'Twill  be  our  heaven  to  find  that — he  is  there ! 

REV.  JOHN  PIEEPONT. 


£)rmm  of  Mature. 


God  of  the  earth's  extended  plains  !  the  dark  green  fields  contented  liq ; 
The  mountains  rise  like  holy  towers,  where  man  might  commune  with  the  sky  ; 
The  tall  cliff  challenges  the  storm,  that  lowers  upon  the  vale  below, 
Where  shaded  fountains  send  their  streams,  with  joyous  music  in  their  flow. 

God  of  the  dark  and  heavy  deep !  the  waves  lie  sleeping  on  the  sands, 
Till  the  fierce  trumpet  of  the  storm  hath  summon'd  up  their  thundering  bands. 
Then  the  white  sails  are  dash'd  in  foam,  or  hurry,  trembling,  o'er  the  seas, 
Till  calm'd  by  thee,  the  sinking  gale  serenely  breathes,  Depart  in  peace. 

God  of  the  forest's  solemn  shade !  the  grandeur  of  the  lonely  tree, 

That  wrestles  singly  with  the  gale,  lifts  up  admiring  eyes  to  Thee. 

But  more  majestic  far  they  stand,  when,  side  by  side,  their  ranks  they  form, 

To  wave  on  high  their  plumes  of  grace,  and  fight  their  battles  with  the  storm. 

God  of  the  light  and  viewless  air!  when  summer  breezes  sweetly  flow, 
Or,  gathering  in  their  angry  might,  the  fierce  and  angry  tempests  blow. 
All— from  the  evening's  plaintive  sigh,  that  hardly  lifts  the  drooping  flower. 
To  the  wild  whirlwind's  midnight  cry— breathe  forth  the  language  of  thy  power. 

God  of  the  fair  and  open  sky !  how  gloriously  above  us  springs, 
The  tented  dome  of  heavenly  blue,  suspended  on  the  rainbow's  wings. 
Each  brilliant  star  that  sparkles  through,  each  gilded  cloud  that  wanders  free. 
In  evening's  purple  radiance  gives  the  beauty  of  its  praise  to  Thee. 

t  143) 


144  HYMN    OF    NATURE. 

God  of  the  rolling  orbs  above  !  thy  name  is  written  clearly  bright 
In  the  warm  day's  unvarying  blaze,  or  evening's  golden  shower  of  light 
For  every  fire  that  fronts  the  sun,  and  every  spark  that  walks  alone 
Around  the  utmost  verge  of  heaven,  were  kindled  at  thy  burning  throne. 

God  of  the  world!  the  hour  must  come,  and  Nature's  self  to  dust  return  ; 
Her  crumbling  altars  must  decay,  her  incense  fires  shall  cease  to  burn ;    ' 
But  still  her  grand  and  lovely  scenes  have  made  man's  warmest  praises  flow  ■ 
For  hearts  grow  holier  as  they  trace  the  beauty  of  the  world  below. 

PEABODY 


%  €ntcifi*ton. 


I  ask'd  the  heavens,  «  What  foe  to  God  had  done 

This  unexampled  deed?"— The  heavens  exclaim, 
"  'T  was  man,  and  we  in  horror  snatch'd  the  sun 

From  such  a  spectacle  of  guilt  and  shame." 
I  ask'd  the  sea ;— the  sea  in  fury  boil'd, 

And  answer'd  with  his  voice  of  storms,  «  'T  was  man; 
My  waves  in  panic  at  his  crime  recoil'd, 

Disclosed  the  abyss,  and  from  the  centre  ran." 
I  ask'd  the  earth ;  the  earth  replied,  aghast, 

"  'Twas  man;  and  such  strange  pangs  my  bosom  rent, 
That  still  I  groan  and  shudder  at  the  past." 

—To  man,  gay,  smiling,  thoughtless  man,  I  went, 
And  ask'd  him  next:— He  turn'd  a  scornful  eye, 
Shook  his  proud  head,  and  deign'd  me  no  reply. 

JAMES   MONTGOMERY 


©u  tljc  Dcatl)  of  a  Jrienfe 


Who  shall  weep  when  the  righteous  die  ! 

Who  shall  mourn  when  the  good  depart] 
When  the  soul  of  the  godly  away  shall  ny, 

Who  shall  lay  the  loss  to  heart? 

He  has  gone  into  peace — he  has  laid  him  down, 
To  sleep  till  the  dawn  of  a  brighter  day ; 

And  he  shall  wake  on  that  holy  morn, 

When  sorrow  and  sighing  shall  flee  away. 

But  ye  who  worship  in  sin  and  shame 

Your  idol  gods,  whate'er  they  be  ; 
Who  scoff,  in  your  pride,  at  your  Maker's  name, 

By  the  pebbly  stream  and  the  shady  tree, — 

Hope  in  your  mountains,  and  hope  in  your  streams, 
Bow  down  in  their  worship,  and  loudly  pray ; 

Trust  in  your  strength,  and  believe  in  your  dreams, 
But  the  wind  shall  carry  them  all  away. 

There's  one  who  drank  at  a  purer  fountain, 
One  who  was  wash'd  in  a  purer  flood  : 

He  shall  inherit  a  holier  mountain, 
He  shall  worship  a  holier  God. 

But  the  sinner  shall  utterly  fail  and  die, 
\\  liolm'd  in  the  waves  of  a  troubled  sea; 

And  God,  from  his  throne  of  light  on  high, 
Shall  say,  there  is  no  peace  for  thee. 

JOHN  O.    C    BRA: 
10  (U5) 


ffilje  flrager  for  3111. 


To  prayer,  my  cnild  !  and  oh,  be  thy  first  prayer 
For  her  who  many  nights,  with  anxious  care, 

Rock'd  thy  first  cradle ;  who  took  thy  infant  soul 
From  heaven,  and  gave  it  to  the  world ;  then  rife 
With  love,  still  drank  herself  the  gall  of  life, 

And  left  for  thy  young  lips  the  honied  bowl. 

And  then — I  need  it  more — then  pray  for  me ! 
For  she  is  gentle,  artless,  true  like  thee ; 

She  has  a  guileless  heart,  brow  placid,  still ; 
Pity  she  has  for  all,  envy  for  none ; 
Gentle  and  wise,  she  patiently  lives  on; 

And  she  endures,  nor  knows  who  does  the  ill. 

In  culling  flowers,  her  novice  hand  has  ne'er 
Touch'd  e'en  the  outer  rind  of  vice ;  no  snare 

With  smiling  show  has  lured  her  steps  aside : 
On  her  the  past  has  left  no  staining  mark; 
Nor  knows  she  aught  of  those  bad  thoughts  which,  dark, 

Like  shades  on  waters,  o'er  the  spirit  glide. 

She  knows  not — nor  mayst  thou — the  miseries 
In  which  our  spirits  mingle ;  vanities, 

Remorse,  soul-gnawing  cares,  Pleasure's  false  show ; 
Passions  which  float  upon  the  heart  like  foam, 
Bitter  remembrances  which  o'er  us  come, 

And  Shame's  red  spot  spread  sudden  o'er  the  brow. 

(146) 


THE    PRAYER    FOR    ALL.  1  17 

I  know  life  better;  when  thou'rt  older  grown 
I'll  tell  thee — it  is  needful  to  be  known — 

Of  the  pursuit  of  wealth — art,  power;  the  cost — 
That  it  is  folly — nothingness: — that  Shame 
For  Glory  is  oft  thrown  us  in  the  game 

Of  Fortune's  chances  where  the  soul  is  lost. 

The  soul  will  change.     Although  of  every  thing 
The  cause  and  end  be  clear,  yet  wildering 

We  go  through  life,  (of  vice  and  error  full.) 
We  wander  as  we  go; — we  feel  the  load 
Of  doubt;  and  to  the  briers  upon  the  road 

Man  leaves  his  virtue,  as  a  sheep  its  wool. 

Then  go,  go  pray  for  me !  And  as  the  prayer 
Gushes  in  words,  be  this  the  form  they  bear: 

"Lord,  Lord,  our  Father!  God,  my  prayer  attend. 
Pardon— Thou  art  good  !— pardon— Thou  art  great!" 
Let  them  go  freely  forth,  fear  not  their  fate ! 

Where  thy  soul  sends  them,  thitherward  they  tend. 

There's  nothing  here  below  which  does  not  find 
Its  tendency.     O'er  plains  the  rivers  wind, 

And  reach  the  sea ;  the  bee,  by  instinct  driven, 
Finds  out  the  honied  flowers ;  the  eagle  flies 
To  seek  the  sun ;  the  vulture  where  death  lies ; 

The  swallow  to  the  spring ;  the  prayer  to  heaven ! 

And  when  thy  voice  is  raised  to  God  for  me, 
I'm  like  the  slave  whom  in  the  vale  we  see 

Seated  to  rest,  his  heavy  load  laid  by ; 
I  feel  refresh'd— the  load  of  faults  and  wo 
Which,  groaning,  I  drag  with  me  as  I  go, 

Thy  winged  prayer  bears  off  rejoicingly! 


148  THE    PRAYER    FOR   ALL. 

Pray  for  thy  father !  that  his  dreams  be  bright, 
With  visitings  of  angel  forms  of  light, 

And  his  soul  burn  as  incense  flaming  wide. 
Let  thy  pure  breath  all  his  dark  sins  efface, 
So  that  his  heart  be  like  the  holy  place, 

An  altar's  pavement  each  eve  purified ! 

VICTOR   HUGO. 


<£t)e  Cament  bt>  tljc  Risers  of  Babulou. 


We  sat  down  and  wept  by  the  waters 
Of  Babel,  and  thought  of  the  day 

When  our  foe,  in  the  hue  of  his  slaughters, 
Made  Salem's  high  places  his  prey ; 

And  ye,  O  her  desolate  daughters  ! 
Were  scatter'd  all  weeping  away. 

While  sadly  we  gazed  on  the  river 
Which  rolled  on  in  freedom  below, 

They  demanded  the  song;  but,  oh,  never 
That  triumph  the  stranger  shall  know ! 

May  this  right  hand  be  wither'd  for  ever, 
Ere  it  string  our  high  harp  for  the  foe! 

On  the  willow  that  harp  is  suspended — 
O  Salem  !  its  sound  should  be  free ; 

And  the  hour  when  thy  glories  were  ended, 
But  left  me  that  token  of  thee ; 

And  ne'er  shall  its  soft  tones  be  blended 
With  the  voice  of  the  spoiler  by  me ! 

BYRON. 


She  Cattle  of  3m*u. 


Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  are! 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  liege,  King  Henry  of  Navarre  ! 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  the  dance, 
Through  thy  corn-fields  green,  and  sunny  vines,  O  pleasant  land  of  France ! 
And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of  the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning  daughters. 
\s  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy, 
For  cold,  and  stiff,  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy  walls  annoy. 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  a  single  field  hath  turn'd  the  chance  of  war; 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  for  Ivry,  and  King  Henry  of  Navarre  ! 

Oli !  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in  long  array ; 
With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  peers, 
And  Appenzel's  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont's  Flemish  spears. 
There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses  of  our  land ! 
And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a  truncheon  in  his  hand ; 
And,  as  we  look'd  on  them,  we  thought  of  Seine's  empurpled  flood, 
And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with  his  blood ; 
And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate  of  war, 
To  fight  for  his  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

The  king  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his  armour  drest, 

And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his  gallant  crest. 

He  look'd  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in  his  eye; 

He  look'd  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern  and  high. 

( 149 ; 


150  THE    BATTLE    OF    IVRY. 

Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  roll'd  from  wing  to  wing, 

Down  all  our  line,  in  deafening  shout,  "  God  save  our  lord  the  king." 

"  And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full  well  he  may — 

For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray — 

Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine,  amidst  the  ranks  of  war. 

And  be  your  oriflamme,  to-day,  the  helmet  of  Navarre." 

Hurrah  !  the  foes  are  moving  !  hark  to  the  mingled  din 

Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring  culverin ! 

The  fiery  Duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint  Andre's  plain, 

With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Almayne. 

Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of  France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  now,  upon  them  with  the  lance ! 

A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand  spears  in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the  snow-white  crest; 

And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rush'd,  while,  like  a  guiding  star, 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of  Navarre. 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours!  Mayenne  hath  turned  his  rein. 
D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter, — the  Flemish  Count  is  slain. 
Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a  Biscay  gale ; 
The  field  is  heap'd  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags,  and  cloven  mail : 
And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and  all  along  our  van, 
"  Remember  St.  Bartholomew,"  was  pass'd  from  man  to  man ; 
But  out  spake  gentle  Henry,  "  No  Frenchman  is  my  foe ; 
Down,  down  with  every  foreigner;  but  let  your  brethren  go !" 
Oh !  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friendship  or  in  war, 
As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of  Navarre ! 

Ho !  maidens  of  Vienne !  ho !  matrons  of  Lucerne ! 

Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  never  shall  return ! 

Ho !  Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican  pistoles, 

That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for  thy  poor  spearmen's  souls ! 

Ho !  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that  your  arms  be  bright! 

Ho !  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve,  keep  watch  and  ward  to-night ! 

For  our  God  hath  crush'd  thy  tyrant,  our  God  hath  raised  the  slave, 

And  mock'd  the  counsel  of  the  wise  and  the  valour  of  the  brave. 

Then  glory  to  His  holy  name  from  whom  all  glories  are ; 

And  glory  to  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry  of  Navarre. 

THOMAS  BABBIKGTOX  MACAULiY 


Spiritual  tUovsljip. 


Though  glorious,  O  God  !  must  thy  temple  have  been 

On  the  day  of  its  first  dedication, 
When  the  cherubim's  wings  widely  waving  were  seen 

On  high  on  the  ark's  holy  station  ; 

When  even  the  chosen  of  Eli,  though  skill'd 

To  minister,  standing  before  thee, 
Retired  from  the  cloud  which  the  temple  then  fill'd, 

And  thy  glory  made  Israel  adore  thee ; 

Though  awfully  grand  was  thy  majesty  then, 

Yet  the  worship  thy  gospel  discloses, 
Less  splendid  in  pomp  to  the  vision  of  men, 

Far  surpasses  the  ritual  of  Moses. 

And  by  whom  was  that  ritual  for  ever  repealed, 

But  by  Him  unto  whom  it  was  given 
To  enter  the  oracle  where  is  revealed 

Not  the  cloud,  but  the  brightness  of  heaven  1 

Who  having  once  enter'd,  hath  shown  us  the  way, 

O  Lord!  how  to  worship  before  thee; 
Not  with  shadowy  forms  of  that  earlier  day, 

But  in  spirit  and  truth  to  adore  thee ; 

(  151) 


152  SPIRITUAL    WORSHIP. 

This,  this  is  the  worship  the  Saviour  made  known, 

When  she  of  Samaria  found  him 
By  the  patriarch's  well,  sitting  weary  alone, 

With  the  stillness  of  noontide  around  him. 

How  sublime,  yet  how  simple,  the  homage  he  taught 
To  her  who  inquired  by  that  fountain, 

If  Jehovah  at  Solyma's  shrine  would  be  sought, 
Or  adored  on  Samaria's  mountain! 

Woman,  believe  me,  the  hour  is  near, 
When  He,  if  ye  rightly  would  hail  Him, 

Will  neither  be  worshipp'd  exclusively  here, 
Nor  yet  at  the  altar  of  Salem. 

For  God  is  a  spirit,  and  they  who  aright 
WTould  perform  the  pure  worship  He  loveth, 

In  the  heart's  holy  temple  will  seek,  with  delight, 
That  spirit  the  Father  approveth. 

EZENAED    BAETOM 


(jopc  in  Darkness. 


Yet,  gracious  God, 

Yet  will  I  seek  thy  smiling  face : 
What  though  a  short  eclipse  his  beauties  shroud, 

And  bar  the  influence  of  his  rays'? 
'T is  but  a  morning  vapour  or  a  summer  cloud; 

He  is  my  sun,  though  He  refuse  to  shine. 
Though  for  a  moment  He  depart, 
I  dwell  for  ever  on  his  heart, 

For  ever  he  on  mine. 
Early,  before  the  light  arise, 

I  '11  spring  a  thought  away  to  God  ; 
The  passion  of  my  heart  and  eyes 
Shall  shout  a  thousand  groans  and  sighs, 
A  thousand  glances  strike  the  skies, 

The  floor  of  his  abode. 

Dear  Sovereign,  hear  thy  servant  pray ; 

Bend  the  blue  heavens,  Eternal  King, 

Downward  thy  cheerful  graces  bring  ; 
Or  shall  I  breathe  in  vain,  and  pant  my  hours  away  ] 
Break,  glorious  Brightness,  through  the  gloomy  veil ! 

Look,  how  the  armies  of  despair 

Aloft  their  sooty  banners  rear 

Round  my  poor  captive  soul,  and  dare 
Pronounce  me  prisoner  of  hell. 

But  Thou,  my  Sun,  and  Thou,  my  Shield, 

Wilt  save  me  in  the  bloody  field. 
Break,  glorious  Brightness,  shoot  one  glimmering  ray 
One  glance  of  thine  creates  a  day, 
And  drives  the  troops  of  hell  away. 

(153) 


154  HOPE    IN    DARKNESS. 

Happy  the  times — but,  ah!  those  times  are  gene 
When  wondrous  power  and  radiant  grace 

Round  the  tall  arches  of  thy  temple  shone, 
And  mingled  their  victorious  rays : 

Sin,  with  all  its  ghastly  train, 

Fled  to  the  depths  of  death  again, 
And  smiling  triumph  sat  on  every  face : 

Our  spirits,  raptured  with  the  sight, 

Were  all  devotion,  all  delight, 
And  loud  hosannas  sounded  the  Redeemer's  praise. 

Here  could  I  say, 
(And  paint  the  place  whereon  I  stood,) 

Here  I  enjoyed  a  visit  half  the  day 
From  my  descending  God  : 
I  was  regaled  with  heavenly  fare, 

With  fruit  and  manna  from  above  : 
Divinely  sweet  the  blessings  were, 
While  my  Emmanuel  was  there ; 

And  o'er  my  head 

The  Conqueror  spread 
The  banner  of  his  love. 

Then  why,  my  heart,  sunk  down  so  low  % 
Why  do  my  eyes  dissolve  and  flow, 

And  hopeless  nature  mourn'? 
Review,  my  soul,  those  pleasing  days, 
Read  his  unalterable  grace 
Through  the  displeasure  of  his  face, 

And  wait  a  kind  return. 
A  father's  love  may  raise  a  frown, 
To  chide  the  child,  or  prove  the  son, 

But  love  will  ne'er  destroy. 
The  hour  of  darkness  is  but  short, 
Faith  be  thy  life,  and  patience  thy  support : 

The  morning  brings  the  joy. 

ISAAC   "WATTS. 


®ljc  Sleep. 

"H«  OIVITH   HlS   BELOVED   SLEEP."— Psalm  CXZVli.   2. 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar, 

Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep — 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is, 
For  gift  or  grace  surpassing  this — 

"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep?" 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart,  to  be  unmoved — 

The  poet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  sweep — 
The  senate's  shout  to  patriot  vows — 
The  monarch's  crown,  to  light  the  brows?— 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ] 
A  little  faith,  all  undisproved — 

A  little  dust,  to  overweep — 
And  bitter  memories,  to  make 
The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake ! 

"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

"Sleep  soft,  beloved  !"  we  sometimes  say, 
But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep  : 
But  never  doleful  dream  again 
Shall  break  the  happy  slumber,  when 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 


(155) 


1  -  .  THE    SLEEP. 

0  earth,  bo  full  of  dreary  noises! 
0  men.  with  wailing  in  your  voices  ! 
O  delved  gold,  the  wallers  heap ! 

0  strife.  0  cue  \r  it  fall! 
God  makes  a  silence  through  you  all. 

And  ••  grfrretfa  His  sleep." 

His  :.-:v         rs  D  the  hill: 

His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still. 
Though  on  its  slope  men  toil  and  lean  ! 
e  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 

■He  giveth  His    eloved  sleep." 

ffa !  men  may 

A  living',  thin  bag  man, 

In  such  a  rest  his  heart  I 
Bu:  ingela  e     — v.-.i  through  the  word 

1  ween  their  I  tile  is  heard — 

••  He  giv 

And.  friends  ! — ;-::.:  friends  ! — when  it  shall  be 
T:.it  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me. 

And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep — 
Le:  me,  ill, 

Say,  not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall — 

••  He  giv 


£l)e  Sacrifice  of  3bral)am. 


Take  BOH  tin  BOO,  thine  only  son  Isaac,  whom  thou  lovest,  and  get  thee  unto  tin:  land 
riab;  and  offer  bun  there  for  a  barnt-ofiering  upon  one  of  the  mountains  which  I  will  tell  thee 
of  —Genesis  wii.  i. 


Mobn  breaketh  in  the  east.     The  purple  clouds 

Are  putting  on  their  gold  and  violet, 

To  look  the  meeter  for  the  sun's  bright  coming. 

Sleep  is  upon  the  waters  and  the  wind  ; 

And  nature,  from  the  very  forest  leaf 

To  her  majestic  master,  sleeps.     As  yet, 

There  is  no  mist  upon  the  deep  blue  sky, 

And  the  clear  dew  is  on  the  blushing  bosom 

Of  crimson  roses  in  a  holy  rest. 

How  hallowed  is  the  hour  of  morning!  meet — 

Ay,  beautifully  meet  for  the  pure  prayer. 

The  patriarch  standeth  at  his  tented  door, 

With  his  white  locks  uncovered.     'Tis  his  wont 

To  gaze  upon  that  gorgeous  orient ; 

And  at  that  hour  the  awful  majesty 

Of  man,  who  talketh  often  with  his  God, 

Is  wont  to  come  again,  and  clothe  his  brow 

As  at  his  fourscore  strength.     But  now,  he  seemeth 

To  be  forgetful  of  his  vigorous  frame, 

And  boweth  to  his  staff,  as  at  the  hour 

Of  noontide  sultriness.     And  that  bright  sun — 

He  looketh  at  his  pencilled  messengers 

Coming  in  golden  raiment,  as  if  all 

Were  but  a  graven  scroll  of  fearfulness. 

Ah,  he  is  waiting  till  it  herald  in 

The  hour  to  sacrifice  his  much-loved  son ! 

Light  poureth  on  the  world.     And  Sarah  stands 
Watching  the  steps  of  Abraham  and  her  child 

(157) 


iOb  THE    SACRIFICE    OF    ABRAHAM. 

Along  the  dewy  sides  of  the  far  hills, 

And  praying  that  her  sunny  boy  faint  not. 

Would  she  have  watch'd  their  path  so  silently, 

If  she  had  known  that  he  was  going  up, 

Even  in  his  fair-haired  beauty,  to  be  slain 

As  a  white  lamb  for  sacrifice  1     They  trod 

Together  onward,  patriarch  and  child — 

The  bright  sun  throwing  back  the  old  man's  shade 

In  straight  and  fair  proportions,  as  of  one 

Whose  years  were  freshly  number'd.     He  stood  up 

Tall  in  his  vigorous  strength;  and,  like  a  tree 

Rooted  in  Lebanon,  his  frame  bent  not. 

His  thin  white  hairs  had  yielded  to  the  wind, 

And  left  his  brow  uncovered ;  and  his  face, 

Impressed  with  the  stern  majesty  of  grief 

Nerved  to  a  solemn  duty,  now  stood  forth, 

Like  a  rent  rock,  submissive,  yet  sublime. 

But  the  young  boy — he  of  the  laughing  eye 

And  ruby  lip — the  pride  of  life  was  on  him; 

He  seemed  to  drink  the  morning.     Sun  and  dew 

And  the  aroma  of  the  spicy  trees, 

And  all  that  giveth  the  delicious  East 

Its  fitness  for  an  Eden,  stole  like  light 

Into  his  spirit,  ravishing  his  thoughts 

With  love  and  beauty.     Every  thing  he  met, 

Buoyant  or  beautiful,  the  lightest  wing 

Of  bird  or  insect,  or  the  palest  dye 

Of  the  fresh  flowers,  won  him  from  his  path ; 

And  joyously  broke  forth  his  tiny  shout, 

As  he  flung  back  his  silken  hair,  and  sprung 

Away  to  some  green  spot  or  clustering  vine, 

To  pluck  his  infant  trophies.     Every  tree 

And  fragrant  shrub  was  a  new  hiding-place; 

And  he  would  crouch  till  the  old  man  came  by, 

Then  bound  before  him,  with  his  childish  laugh, 

Stealing  a  look  behind  him  playfully, 

To  see  if  he  had  made  his  father  smile. 


Tin:   SACRIFICE   OF   ABRAHAM.  159 

The  sun  rode  on  in  In  avm.      The  dew  stole  up 

From  the  fresh  daaghfc  rs  of  the  earth,  and  heat 
Came  like  a  sloop  upon  the  delicate  leaves, 

And  bent  them,  with  the  blossoms,  to  their  dreams. 

Still  trod  the  patriarch  on,  with  that  same  stop, 

Firm  and  unfaltering;  turning  not  aside 

To  seek  the  olive  shades,  or  lave  their  lips 

In  the  sweet  waters  of  the  Syrian  wells, 

Whose  gush  hath  so  much  music.     Weariness 

Stole  on  the  gentle  boy,  and  he  forgot 

To  toss  his  sunny  hair  from  off  his  brow, 

And  spring  for  the  fresh  flowers  and  light  wings, 

As  in  the  early  morning;  but  he  kept 

Close  by  his  father's  side,  and  bent  his  head 

Upon  his  bosom,  like  a  drooping  bud  ; 

Lifting  it  not,  save  now  and  then  to  steal 

A  look  up  to  the  face  whose  sternness  awed 

His  childishness  to  silence. 

It  was  noon — 
And  Abraham  on  Moriah  bowed  himself, 
And  buried  up  his  face,  and  prayed  for  strength. 
He  could  not  look  upon  his  son  and  pray; 
But,  with  his  hand  upon  the  clustering  curls 
Of  the  fair,  kneeling  boy,  he  prayed  that  God 
Would  nerve  him  for  that  hour.     Oh  !  man  was  made 
For  the  stern  conflict.     In  a  mother's  love 
There  is  more  tenderness ;  the  thousand  chords, 
Woven  with  every  fibre  of  her  heart, 
Complain,  like  delicate  harp-strings,  at  a  breath; 
But  love  in  man  is  one  deep  principle, 
Which,  like  a  root  grown  in  a  rifted  rock, 
Abides  the  tempest.     He  rose  up  and  laid 
The  wood  upon  the  altar.     All  was  done. 
He  stood  a  moment — and  a  deep,  quick  flush 
Passed  o'er  his  countenance ;  and  then  he  nerved 
His  spirit  with  a  bitter  strength,  and  spoke — 


160  THE    SACRIFICE    OF    ABRAHAM. 

"  Isaac,  my  only  son  !" — The  boy  looked  up, 

And  Abraham  turned  his  face  away  and  wept. 

"  Where  is  the  lamb,  my  father?" — Oh,  the  tones. 

The  sweet,  the  thrilling  music  of  a  child  ! — 

How  doth  it  agonize  at  such  an  hour ! — 

It  was  the  last,  deep  struggle.     Abraham  held 

His  loved,  his  beautiful,  his  only  son, 

And  lifted  up  his  arm,  and  called  on  God — 

And  lo  !  God's  angel  stayed  him — and  he  fell 

Upon  his  face  and  wept. 

N.   P.   WILLIS. 


fjebron. 


Genesis  xl.  29,  33. 

"Bury  me  with  my  fathers,  in  the  cave 
The  Patriarch  purchased  of  the  sons  of  Heth. 
Where  Abraham  slumbers,  and  where  Isaac  rests, 
Where  Sarah  and  Rebekah  wait  the  dawn 
Of  the  last  morning — and  where  Leah  sleeps, 
Leah  the  tender-eyed,  there  let  me  lie — 
I  buried  her  in  Hebron." — 

Did  the  thought 
That  Rachel  slept  at  Bethlehem,  in  that  hour, 
Come  to  the  dying  man  1     He  gathered  up 
His  limbs  in  decent  calmness;  and  his  spirit, 
Careful  no  longer  where  the  body  tarried, 
Was  gathered  to  his  fathers. 

H.    H.    WJELD. 


Resignation. 


()  THOU  that  wilt  not  break  the  bruised  reed, 
Nor  heap  fresh  ashes  on  the  mourner's  brow, 

Nor  rend  anew  the  wounds  that  inly  bleed, 
The  only  balm  of  our  afflictions,  Thou, 

Teach  us  to  bear  thy  chastening  wrath,  O  God  ! 

To  kiss  with  quivering  lips — still  humbly  kiss,  thy  rod  ! 

We  bless  thee,  Lord,  though  far  from  Judah's  land ; 

Though  our  worn  limbs  are  black  with  stripes  and  chains 
Though  for  stern  foes  we  till  the  burning  sand ; 

And  reap,  for  others'  joy,  the  summer  plains; 
We  bless  thee,  Lord,  for  thou  art  gracious  still, 
Even  though  this  last  black  drop  o'erflow  our  cup  of  ill ! 

We  bless  thee  for  our  lost,  our  beauteous  child  ! 

The  tears,  less  bitter,  she  hath  made  us  weep  ; 
The  weary  hours  her  graceful  sports  have  'guiled, 

And  the  dull  cares  her  voice  hath  sung  to  sleep  ! 
She  was  the  dove  of  hope  to  our  lone  ark; 
The  only  star  that  made  the  stranger's  sky  less  dark ! 

Our  dove  is  fallen  into  the  spoiler's  net; 

Rude  hands  defile  her  plumes,  so  chastely  white : 
To  the  bereaved  their  one  soft  star  is  set, 

And  all  above  is  sullen,  cheerless  night! 
But  still  we  thank  thee  for  our  transient  bliss, 
Yet,  Lord,  to  scourge  our  sins  remain'd  no  way  but  this  ! 

11  (  161  ) 


162  RESIGNATION. 

As  when  our  father  to  mount  Moriah  led 
The  blessing's  heir,  his  age's  hope  and  joy, 

Pleased,  as  he  roamed  along  with  dancing  tread, 
Chid  his  slow  sire,  the  fond,  officious  boy, 

And  laugh'd  in  sport  to  see  the  yellow  fire 

Climb  up  the  turf-built  shrine,  his  destined  funeral  pyre. 

Even  thus  our  joyous  child  went  lightly  on; 

Bashfully  sportive,  timorously  gay, 
Her  white  foot  bounded  from  the  pavement  stone 

Like  some  light  bird  from  off  the  quivering  spray ; 
And  back  she  glanced,  and  smiled,  in  blameless  glee, 
The  cars,  and  helms,  and  spears,  and  mystic  dance,  to  see. 

By  thee,  O  Lord,  the  gracious  voice  was  sent 
That  bade  the  sire  his  murderous  task  forego; 

When  to  his  home  the  child  of  Abraham  went 
His  mother's  tears  had  scarce  begun  to  flow. 

Alas !  and  lurks  there,  in  the  thickest  shade, 

The  victim  to  replace  our  lost,  devoted  maid  ? 

Lord,  e'en  through  thee  to  hope  were  now  too  bold ; 

Yet  'twere  to  doubt  thy  mercy  to  despair. 
'Tis  anguish,  yet  'tis  comfort,  faint  and  cold, 

To  think  how  sad  we  are,  how  blest  we  were ! 
To  speak  of  her  is  wretchedness,  and  yet 
It  were  a  grief  more  deep  and  bitter  to  forget ! 

0  Lord  our  God!  why  was  she  e'er  our  own] 
Why  is  she  not  our  own — our  treasure  still  ? 

We  could  have  pass'd  our  heavy  years  alone. 
Alas!  is  this  to  bow  us  to  thy  will  ? 

Ah,  even  our  humblest  prayers  we  make  repine, 

Nor,  prostrate  thus  on  earth,  our  hearts  to  thee  resign. 


RESIGNATION.  {{]:> 

Forgive,  forgive,  even  should  our  full  hearts  break; 

The  hroken  heart  thou  wilt  not,  Lord,  deapif 
Ah  !   thou  art  still  too  gracious  to  forsake, 

Though  thy  strong  hand  so  heavily  chastise. 
Hear  all  our  prayers,  hear  not  our  murmurs,  Lord  ; 
And  though  our  lips  rebel,  still  make  thyself  adored. 


Suite. 

The  bell  strikes  one.     We  take  no  note  of  time 

But  from  its  loss.     To  give  it  then  a  tongue 

Is  wise  in  man.     As  if  an  angel  spoke, 

I  feel  the  solemn  sound.     If  heard  aright, 

It  is  the  knell  of  my  departed  hours 

Where  are  they?  With  the  years  beyond  the  flood. 

It  is  the  signal  that  demands  despatch  : 

How  much  is  to  be  done?     My  hopes  and  fears 

Start  up  alarm'd,  and  o'er  life's  narrow  verge 

Look  down — on  what?  a  fathomless  abyss  ; 

A  dread  eternity !  how  surely  mine ! 

And  can  eternity  belong  to  me, 

Poor  pensioner  on  the  bounties  of  an  hour! 


Autumn. 


Sweet  Sabbath  of  the  year ! 

While  evening  lights  decay, 
Thy  parting  steps  methinks  I  hear 

Steal  from  the  world  away. 

Amid  thy  silent  bowers, 

'Tis  sad,  but  sweet,  to  dwell ; 

Where  falling  leaves  and  drooping  flowers 
Around  me  breathe  farewell. 

Along  thy  sunset  skies, 

Their  glories  melt  in  shade ; 
And  like  the  things  we  fondly  prize, 

Seem  lovelier  as  they  fade. 

A  deep  and  crimson  streak 

Thy  dying  leaves  disclose ; 
As,  on  Consumption's  waning  cheek, 

'Mid  ruin  blooms  the  rose. 

Thy  scene  each  vision  brings 

Of  beauty  in  decay; 
Of  fair  and  early  faded  things 

Too  exquisite  to  stay. 


(164) 


AUTUMN.  1,,;, 

Of  joy9  that  come  no  more ; 

Of  flowers  whose  hloom  is  fled; 
Of  farewells  wept  upon  the  shore  : 

Of  friends  estranged  or  dead. 
Of  all  that  now  may  seem, 

To  memory's  tearful  eye, 
The  vanish'd  beauty  of  a  dream, 

O'er  which  we  gaze  and  sigh. 

HOXrTG01£ZRY. 


penitential  {Jrcmcr. 

J  no  acknowledge  unto  Thee,  O  God  ! 

A  child  of  wilful  waywardness  I've  been ; 

In  crooked  paths  of  selfishness  and  sin 
These  many  years  my  wandering  feet  have  trod. 

But,  oh  !  be  merciful !     The  world  I've  loved 

Like  Sodom's  fruit  of  bitterness  has  proved; 
And  I,  repentant,  bleeding  at  the  heart, 

Would  find  a  Helper  in  this  time  of  wo; 

And,  save  to  Thee,  I  know  not  where  to  go 
To  find  a  balsam  for  my  bosom's  smart. 

Be  merciful,  0  God  !     Let  Him  atone 
Who  died  for  wretched  men  like  me:  no  plea 

My  anguish  knows  but  this  last  plea  alone  ! 
For  His  dear  sake,  my  God  !  oh,  spare  and  pity  me ! 

THQl 


filje  flratuT  of  a  Conclu  ijcart. 


I  am  alone — Oh,  be  thou  near  to  me, 
Great  God !  from  whom  the  meanest  are  not  far. 
Not  in  presumption  of  the  daring  spirit, 
Striving  to  find  the  secrets  of  itself, 
"Make  I  my  weeping  prayer ;  in  the  deep  want 
Of  utter  loneliness,  my  God!  I  seek  thee; 
If  the  worm  may  creep  up  to  thy  fellowship, 
Or  dust,  instinct  with  yearning,  rise  towards  thee. 
I  have  no  fellow,  Father  !  of  my  kind ; 
None  that  be  kindred,  none  companion  to  me, 
And  the  vast  love,  and  harmony,  and  brotherhood, 
Of  the  dumb  creatures  thou  hast  made  below  me, 
Vexes  my  soul  with  its  own  bitter  lot. 
Around  me  grow  the  trees,  each  by  the  other ; 
Innumerable  leaves,  each  like  the  other, 
^Yhisper  and  breathe,  and  live  and  move  together. 
Around  me  spring  the  flowers  ;  each  rosy  cup 
Hath  sisters  leaning  their  fair  cheeks  against  it. 
The  birds  fly  all  above  me;  not  alone, 
But  coupled  in  free  fellowship,  or  mustering 
A  joyous  band,  sweeping  in  companies 
The  wide  blue  fields  between  the  clouds  ; — the  clouds 
Troop  in  society,  each  on  the  other 
Shedding,  like  sympathy,  reflected  light. 
The  waves,  a  multitude,  together  run 
To  the  great  breast  of  the  receiving  sea : 

(166) 


Tin:   PRATEB   OF    a    LONELY    HEART.  167 

Nothing  t>ut  bath  its  kind,  its  company, 
O  God  !  save  I  alone  !— Then  let  me  come, 
Good  Father!  to  thy  feet.     When,  even  as  now, 
Tears,  that  no  human  hand  is  near  to  wipe, 
O'erbrim  my  eyes,  O  wipe  them,  thou,  my  Father! 
When  in  my  heart  the  stores  of  its  affections, 
Piled  up,  unused,  lock'd  fast,  are  like  to  burst 
The  fleshly  casket,  that  may  not  contain  them, 
Let  me  come  nigh  to  thee;— accept  them  thou, 
Dear  Father! — Fount  of  love  !  Compassionate  God  ! 
When  in  my  spirit  burns  the  fire,  the  power 
That  have  made  men  utter  the  words  of  angels, 
And  none  are  near  to  bid  me  speak  and  live : 
Hearken,  O  Father !  Maker  of  my  spirit ! 
God  of  my  soul,  to  thee  I  will  outpour 
The  hymns  resounding  through  my  troubled  mind, 
The  sighs  and  sorrows  of  my  lonely  heart, 
The  tears  and  weeping  of  my  weary  eyes : 
Be  thou  my  fellow,  glorious,  gracious  God ! 
And  fit  me  for  such  fellowship  with  thee  ! 

FRANCES    SEM3LE    3T7LEK 


tUastcb  fountains. 


And  their  nobles  have  sent  their  little  ones  to  the  waters;  they  came  to  the  pits  and  found  no 
water ;  they  returned  with  their  vessels  empty. — Jeremiah  xiv.  3. 


When  the  youthful  fever  of  the  soul 

Is  awaken'd  in  thee  first, 
And  thou  go'st  like  Judah's  children  forth 

To  slake  the  burning  thirst, 

And  when,  dry  and  wasted,  like  the  springs 

Sought  by  that  little  band, 
Before  thee,  in  life's  emptiness, 

Life's  broken  cisterns  stand  ; 

When  the  golden  fruits  that  tempted  thee 

Turn  to  ashes  on  the  taste, 
And  thine  early  visions  fade  and  pass, 

Like  the  mirage  of  the  waste ; 

WThen  faith  darkens,  and  hopes  vanish 

In  the  shade  of  coming  years, 
And  the  urn  thou  bear'st  is  empty, 

Or  o'erflowing  with  thy  tears ; 

Though  the  transient  springs  have  fail'd  thee, 
Though  the  founts  of  youth  are  dried, 

WTilt  thou  among  the  mouldering  stones 
In  weariness  abide'? 

Wilt  thou  sit  among  the  ruins, 

With  all  words  of  love  unspoken, 

Till  the  silver  cord  is  loosen'd, 

Till  the  golden  bowl  is  broken1? 

(168) 


WASTED    FOUNTAINS.  169 

Up  and  onward  !  toward  the  East 

Green  oases  thou  shah  find, — 
Streams  that  rise  from  higher  sources 

Than  the  pools  thou  leav'st  behind. 

Life  has  import  more  inspiring 

Than  the  fancies  of  thy  youth ; 
It  has  hopes  as  high  as  heaven, 

It  has  labour,  it  has  truth. 

It  has  wrongs  that  may  be  righted, 

Noble  deeds  that  may  be  done ; 
Its  great  battles  are  unfought, 

Its  great  triumphs  are  unwon. 

There  is  rising  from  its  troubled  deeps 

A  low,  unceasing  moan  ; 
There  are  aching,  there  are  breaking, 

Other  hearts  besides  thine  own. 

From  strong  limbs  that  should  be  chainles3, 

There  are  fetters  to  unbind ; 
There  are  words  to  raise  the  fallen, 

There  is  light  to  give  the  blind. 

There  are  crush'd  and  broken  spirits, 

That  electric  thoughts  may  thrill ; 
Lofty  dreams  to  be  embodied 

By  the  might  of  one  strong  will. 

There  are  God  and  heaven  above  thee : 

Wilt  thou  languish  in  despair? 
Tread  thy  griefs  beneath  thy  feet, 

Scale  the  walls  of  heaven  by  prayer. 

'Tis  the  key  of  the  apostle 

That  will  open  heaven  below ; 
'Tis  the  ladder  of  the  patriarch, 

Whereon  angels  come  and  go. 

ANNE    CHARLOTTE    LYNCH. 


33*lsl)ct#ar. 


Belshazzar  is  King!     Belshazzar  is  Lord  ! 

And  a  thousand  dark  nobles  all  bend  at  his  board ; 

Fruits  glisten,  flowers  blossom,  meats  steam,  and  a  flood 

Of  the  wine  that  man  loveth  runs  redder  than  blood  : 

Wild  dancers  are  there,  and  a  riot  of  mirth, 

And  the  beauty  that  maddens  the  passions  of  earth; 

And  the  crowds  all  shout, 

Till  the  vast  roofs  ring — 
"All  praise  to  Belshazzar,  Belshazzar  the  king!" 

"Bring  forth,"  cries  the  monarch,  "the  vessels  of  gold, 
Which  my  father  tore  down  from  the  temples  of  old : 
Bring  forth,  and  we'll  drink,  while  the  trumpets  are  blown, 
To  the  Gods  of  bright  silver,  of  gold,  and  of  stone; 
Bring  forth  !" — and  before  him  the  vessels  all  shine, 
And  he  bows  unto  Baal,  and  he  drinks  the  dark  wine ; 

While  the  trumpets  bray, 

And  the  cymbals  ring — 
"Praise,  praise  to  Belshazzar,  Belshazzar  the  king!" 

Now  what  cometh — look,  look! — without  menace,  or  call1? 
Who  writes,  with  the  lightning's  bright  hand,  on  the  wall? 
What  pierceth  the  king,  like  the  point  of  a  dart] 
What  drives  the  bold  blood  from  his  cheek  to  his  heart? 
"Chaldeans!  Magicians!  the  letters  expound !" 
They  are  read — and  Belshazzar  is  dead  on  the  ground ! 

Hark  ! — the  Persian  is  come 

On  a  conqueror's  wing; 
And  a  Mede's  on  the  throne  of  Belshazzar  the  king ! 

BARRY  CORNWALL. 
(170) 


Consolation. 


PILGRIM  burden'd  with  thy  sin, 

Come  the  way  to  Zion's  gate, 
There,  till  mercy  lots  thee  in, 

Knock,  and  weep,  and  watch,  and  wait. 
Knock!— He  knows  the  sinner's  cry  ; 

Weep!— He  loves  the  mourner's  tears; 
Watch  '.—for  saving  grace  is  nigh ; 

Waitr-till  heavenly  light  appears. 

Hark!  it  is  the  bridegroom's  voice: 

Welcome,  pilgrim,  to  thy  rest; 
Now  within  the  gate  rejoice, 

Safe,  and  seal'd,  and  bought,  and  blest. 
Safe— from  all  the  lures  of  vice; 

Seal'd— by  signs  the  chosen  know  ; 
Bought— by  love,  and  life  the  price  ; 

Blest— the  mighty  debt  to  owe. 

Holy  pilgrim !  what  for  thee, 

In  a  world  like  this  remain1? 
From  thy  guarded  breast  shall  flee, 

Fear,  and  shame,  and  doubt,  and  pain. 
Fear— the  hope  of  heaven  shall  fly ; 

Shame— from  glory's  view  retire ; 
Doubt— in  certain  rapture  die; 

Pain— in  endless  bliss  expire. 

CRABBE. 


(171) 


damcroman'0  ©ream. 


iN  a  dream  of  the  night  I  was  wafted  away 
To  the  muirlands  of  mist,  where  the  martyr  host  lay, 
Where  Cameron's  sword  and  his  Bible  are  seen 
Engraved  on  the  stone,  where  the  heather  grows  green. 

'Twas  a  dream  of  those  ages  of  darkness  and  blood, 
When  the  minister's  home  was  the  mountain  and  wood, 
When  in  Wellwood's  dark  valley  the  standard  of  Zion, 
All  bloody  and  torn,  'mong  the  heather  was  lying. 

'Twas  morning,  and  summer's  young  sun,  from  the  east, 

Lay  in  loving  repose  on  the  green  mountain's  breast ; 

On  Wardlaw  and  Cairntable,  the  clear  shining  dew 

Glisten'd  sheen  'mong  the  heath  bells,  and  mountain  flowers  blue. 

And  far  up  in  heaven,  near  the  white  sunny  cloud, 
The  song  of  the  lark  was  melodious  and  loud ; 
And  in  Glenmuir's  wild  solitudes,  lengthen'd  and  deep, 
Were  the  whistling  of  plovers,  and  bleating  of  sheep. 

And  Wellwood's  sweet  valley  breathed  music  and  gladness, 
The  fresh  meadow  blooms  hung  in  beauty  and  redness; 
Its  daughters  were  happy,  to  hail  the  returning, 
And  drink  the  delights  of  July's  sweet  morning. 

(172) 


173 


But,  ah !  there  were  hearts  eherish'd  far  other  feelings, 
Illumed  by  the  light  of  prophetic  revealings, 
Who  drank  from  the  scenery  of  beauty  but  sorrow, 
For  they  knew  that  their  blood  would  bedew  it  to-morrow. 

'Twas  the  few  faithful  ones  who  with  Cameron  were  lying 
Concealed  'mong  the  mist,  where  the  heath-fowl  was  crying, 
For  the  horsemen  of  Earshall  around  them  were  hovering, 
And  their  bridle-reins  rung  through  the  thin  misty  covering. 

Their  faces  grew  pale,  and  their  swords  were  unsheathed, 
But  the  vengeance  that  darkened  their  brow  was  unbreathed; 
With  eyes  turn'd  to  heaven  in  calm  resignation, 
They  sung  their  last  song  to  the  God  of  salvation. 

The  hills  with  the  deep  mournful  music  were  ringing, 
The  curlew  and  plover  in  concert  were  singing; 
But  the  melody  died  'mid  derision  and  laughter, 
As  the  host  of  ungodly  rush'd  on  to  the  slaughter. 

Though  in  mist,  and  in  darkness,  and  fire  they  weie  shrouded, 
Yet  the  souls  of  the  righteous  were  calm  and  unclouded  ; 
Their  dark  eyes  flash'd  lightning,  as  firm  and  unbending 
They  stood  like  the  rock,  which  the  thunder  is  rending. 

The  muskets  were  flashing,  the  blue  swords  were  gleaming, 
The  helmets  were  cleft,  and  the  red  blood  was  streaming ; 
The  heavens  grew  dark,  and  the  thunder  was  rolling, 
When  in  Wellwood's  dark  muirlands  the  mighty  were  falling. 

When  the  righteous  had  fallen,  and  the  combat  was  ended 
A  chariot  of  fire  through  the  dark  cloud  descended ; 
Its  drivers  were  angels  on  horses  of  whiteness, 
And  its  burning  wheels  turn'd  on  axles  of  brightness. 


174 


A  seraph  unfolded  its  doors  bright  and  shining, 
All  dazzling  like  gold  of  the  seventh  refining; 
And  the  souls  that  came  forth  out  of  great  tribulation, 
Have  mounted  the  chariot  and  steeds  of  salvation. 

On  the  arch  of  the  rainbow  the  chariot  is  gliding, 
Through  the  path  of  the  thunder  the  horsemen  are  riding; 
Glide  swiftly,  bright  spirits,  the  prize  is  before  ye, 
A  crown  never  fading,  a  kingdom  of  glory. 

HTSLOP. 


Hzsxxs  stilling  tljc  Scmpest. 


When  through  the  torn  sail  the  wild  tempest  is  streaming, 
When  o'er  the  dark  wave  the  red  lightning  is  gleaming, 
Nor  hope  lends  a  ray,  the  poor  seaman  to  cherish, 
We  fly  to  our  Maker :  "  Save,  Lord  !  or  we  perish." 

O  Jesus !  once  rock'd  on  the  breast  of  the  billow, 
Aroused  by  the  shriek  of  despair  from  thy  pillow; 
Now  seated  in  glory,  the  mariner  cherish, 
Who  cries  in  his  anguish,  "  Save,  Lord,  or  we  perish." 

And,  O  !  when  the  whirlwind  of  passion  is  raging, 
When  sin  in  our  hearts  his  wild  warfare  is  waging, 
Then  send  down  thy  grace,  thy  redeemed  to  cherish ; 
Rebuke  the  destroyer;  "  Save,  Lord,  or  we  perish." 


£o  mil  illotljcr. 


Oh,  mother,  would  the  power  were  mine 
To  wake  the  strain  thou  lovest  to  hear, 

And  breathe  each  trembling  new-born  thought 
Within  thy  fondly  listening  ear, 

As  when,  in  days  of  health  and  glee, 

My  hopes  and  fancies  wander'd  free. 

But,  mother,  now  a  shade  hath  pass'd 
Athwart  my  brightest  visions  here  ; 

A  cloud  of  darkest  gloom  hath  wrapp'd 
The  remnant  of  my  brief  career; 

No  song,  no  echo  can  I  win, 

The  sparkling  fount  hath  dried  within. 

The  torch  of  earthly  hope  burns  dim, 

And  fancy  spreads  her  wings  no  more; 
And  Oh,  how  vain  and  trivial  seem 

The  pleasures  that  I  prized  before ! 
My  soul,  with  trembling  steps  and  slow, 

Is  struggling  on  through  doubt  and  strife; 
Oh,  may  it  prove,  as  time  rolls  on, 

The  pathway  to  eternal  life ! 
Then,  when  my  cares  and  fears  are  o'er, 
I'll  sing  thee  as  in  "  days  of  yore." 

1  said  that  Hope  had  pass'd  from  earth ; 

'Twas  but  to  fold  her  wings  in  heaven, 
To  whisper  of  the  soul's  new  birth, 

Of  sinners  saved  and  sins  forgiven: 
When  mine  are  wash'd  in  tears  away, 
Then  shall  my  spirit  swell  my  lay. 


175) 


176  TO    MY    MOTHER. 

When  God  shall  guide  my  soul  above, 
By  the  soft  chords  of  heavenly  love — 
When  the  vain  cares  of  earth  depart, 
And  tuneful  voices  swell  my  heart — 
Then  shall  each  word,  each  note  I  raise, 
Burst  forth  in  pealing  hymns  of  praise; 
And  all  not  orTer'd  at  His  shrine, 
Dear  mother,  I  will  place  on  thine. 

M.    DAVIDSON. 


So  an  Infant  Stater. 


Sweet  babe !  I  cannot  hope  that  thou  'It  be  freed 
From  woes,  to  all  since  earliest  time  decreed  ; 
But  may'st  thou  be  with  resignation  bless'd, 
To  bear  each  evil,  howsoe'er  distress'd. 

May  hope  her  anchor  lend  amid  the  storm, 
And  o'er  the  tempest  rear  her  angel  form  ; 
May  sweet  benevolence,  whose  words  are  peace, 
To  the  rude  whirlwind  softly  whisper — cease  ! 

And  may  Religion,  heaven's  own  darling  child, 
Teach  thee  at  human  cares  and  griefs  to  smile  ; 
Teach  thee  to  look  beyond  that  world  of  wo, 
To  heaven's  high  fount,  whence  mercies  ever  flow. 

And  when  this  vale  of  years  is  safely  pass'd, 
When  death's  dark  curtain  shuts  the  scene  at  last, 
May  thy  freed  spirit  leave  this  earthly  sod, 
And  fly  to  seek  the  bosom  of  thy  God. 

L.    DAVIDSON. 


Cljottgljts  on  Dcatl). 


'T  is  but  a  little  thing  to  die, 

To  fall  asleep  in  death, 
To  close  on  earth  the  weary  eye, 

And  loose  the  faltering  breath. 

We  daily  suffer  more  than  this 
In  anxious  thought  and  pain — 

In  what  we  have,  and  what  we  miss, 
In  loss,  or  want  of  gain. 

"T  is  not  to  part  with  life  we  fear ; 

That  easily  were  borne ; 
It  is  from  ties  we  hold  more  dear, 

The  heart-strings  must  be  torn. 

To  leave  the  prattlers  at  our  knee, 
The  wife,  the  friends  we  love ; 

All  we  are  now,  or  hope  to  be, 
Should  life  a  blessing  prove : 

'T  is  these  that  make  us  cling  to  life, 
With  all  its  toil  and  pain ; 

That  gird  us  up  to  meet  the  strife — 
Renew  our  strength  again. 

I  cannot  bear  the  thought,  to  leave 
These  cherished  ones  alone 

To  meet  the  world,  and  strive  and  grieve 
As  I  do,  and  have  done. 

Spare  us,  0  Father !  let  us  stay, 
While  these  strong  ties  entwine ; 

That  I  may  smooth  their  rugged  way, 
And  they,  in  turn,  cheer  mine  ! 

D.    BATES. 

12  (17?) 


*4 


(Hl)vt0t  a  Sttinpatl)is\ng  Jnetft. 


When  gathering  clouds  around  I  view, 
And  days  are  dark,  and  friends  are  few; 
On  Him  I  lean,  who,  not  in  vain, 
Experienced  every  human  pain. 
He  sees  my  griefs,  allays  my  fears, 
And  counts  and  treasures  up  my  tears. 

If  aught  should  tempt  my  soul  to  stray 
From  heavenly  wisdom's  narrow  way, 
To  fly  the  good  I  would  pursue, 
Or  do  the  thing  I  would  not  do ; 
Still  He,  who  felt  temptation's  power, 
Shall  guard  me  in  that  dangerous  hour. 

If  wounded  love  my  bosom  swell, 
Despised  by  those  I  prized  too  well; 
He  shall  his  pitying  aid  bestow, 
Who  felt  on  earth  severer  wo; 
At  once  betray'd,  denied,  or  fled, 
By  those  who  shared  his  daily  bread. 

When  vexing  thoughts  within  me  rise, 
And,  sore  dismay'd,  my  spirit  dies ; 
Yet  He  who  once  vouchsafed  to  bear 
The  sickening  anguish  of  despair, 
Shall  sweetly  soothe,  shall  gently  dry, 
The  throbbing  heart,  the  streaming  eye. 


(178) 


CHRIST    A    SYMPATHISING    FRIEND.  17(» 

i 

When,  mourning,  o'er  some  stone  I  bend, 
Which  covers  all  that  was  a  friend, 
And  from  his  voice,  his  hand,  his  smile, 
Divides  me  for  a  little  while  ; 
Thou,  Saviour,  mark'st  the  tears  I  shed, 
For  thou  didst  weep  o'er  Lazarus  dead. 

And,  oh,  when  I  have  safely  past 
Through  every  conflict  but  the  last, 
Still,  still  unchanging,  watch  beside 
My  painful  bed — for  thou  hast  died  ; 
Then  point  to  realms  of  cloudless  day, 
And  wipe  the  latest  tear  away. 


Sips  toorlir  a  Babble. 


My  soul,  what's  lighter  than  a  feather?     Wind. 
Than  wind  1    The  fire.     And  what  than  fire  1 

The  mind. 
What's  lighter  than  the  mind  1     A  thought.     Than  thought  ? 
This  bubble,  world.     What  than  this  bubble  1 

Naught. 


QUARLES. 


She  "  £l)m  tfltgljtn/ 


QUIETLY  falls  from  heaven  the  light 
Of  the  stars  and  moon  in  the  summer  night; 
And  the  rising  sun  in  Rephaim's  vale 
Is  met  by  the  glitter  of  clanging  mail. 

The  Philistine  hath  fix'd  his  encampment  here, 

Afar  stretch  his  lines  of  banner  and  spear, 

And  his  chariots  of  brass  are  ranged  side  by  side, 

And  his  war-steeds  neigh  loud  in  their  trappings  of  pride 

His  tents  are  placed  where  the  waters  flow ; 
The  sun  hath  dried  up  the  spring  below ; 
And  Israel  hath  neither  well  nor  pool 
The  rage  of  her  soldiers'  thirst  to  cool. 

In  the  cave  of  Adullam  King  David  lies, 
Overcome  with  the  glare  of  the  burning  skies; 
And  the  lip  is  parch'd,  and  his  tongue  is  dry, 
But  none  can  the  grateful  draught  supply. 

Though  a  crowned  king,  in  that  painful  hour, 
One  flowing  cup  might  have  bought  his  power: 
What  worth  in  the  fire  of  thirst  could  be 
The  purple  pomp  of  his  sovereignty  1 

But  no  cooling  cup  from  river  or  spring 
To  relieve  his  want  can  his  servants  bring, 
And  he  cries,  "Are  there  none  in  my  train  or  state 
Will  fetch  me  the  water  of  Bethlehem  gate?" 

(180) 


THE     THREE    MIGHTY.  181 

Then  three  of  his  warriors,  the  Mighty  Three, 
The  boast  of  the  monarch's  chivalry, 
Uprose  in  their  strength,  and  their  bucklers  rang. 
As  with  flashing  eyes  on  their  steeds  they  sprang. 

On  their  steeds  they  sprang,  and  then  forth  with  speed 
They  rush  in  the  strength  of  a  noble  deed, 
They  dash  on  the  foe  like  a  torrent  flood, 
Till  his  armour  is  dyed  in  his  flowing  blood. 

To  the  right,  to  the  left,  where  their  blue  swords  shine, 
Like  autumn  corn,  falls  the  Philistine ; 
And  sweeping  along  with  the  arms  of  fate, 
The  Mighty  rush  to  the  Bethlehem  gate. 

Through  a  bloody  gap  in  his  shatter'd  array 
To  a  crystal  well  they  have  hewn  their  way ; 
Then  backward  they  turn  on  the  corse-cover'd  plain, 
And  charge  through  the  foe  to  their  monarch  again. 

The  king  look'd  on  the  cup,  "  Oh,  never  a  draught 
So  dearly  bought  shall  by  me  be  quaff' d  !" 
On  his  cheek  is  pallor,  and  quivers  his  lip, 
Yet  all  vainly  they  urge  him  the  water  to  sip. 

But  with  head  uncover'd  and  upturn' d  eye 

He  pours  it  forth  to  the  Lord  on  high ; 

'Tis  a  draught  of  death — 'tis  a  cup  blood-stain' d — 

'Tis  a  prize  by  man's  peril  and  agony  gain'd. 

Should  he  taste  of  a  cup  that  his  Mighty  Three 

Had  obtain'd  by  such  valour  and  jeopardy] 

Should  he  drink  of  their  life  1 — 'Twas  the  thought  of  a  king ! 

And  again  he  return'd  to  his  suffering. 

ANONY1IOT3. 


®!)c  Qour  of  Dcatl). 


Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind's  breath ; 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death  ! 

Day  is  for  mortal  care, 
Eve  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joyous  hearth, 

Night  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice  of  prayer; 
But  all  for  thee,  thou  mightiest  of  the  earth! 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour, 
Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth,  and  song,  and  wine ; 

There  comes  a  day  for  griefs  o'erwhelming  power, 
A  time  for  softer  tears — but  all  are  thine ! 

Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay, 

And  smile  at  thee ! — but  thou  art  not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripen'd  bloom  to  seize  their  prey ! 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  0  Death ! 

(182) 


THE    HOUR    OF    DEATH. 

We  know  when  moons  shall  wane, 
When  summer-birds  from  far  shall  cross  the  sea, 

When  autumn's  hue  shall  tinge  the  golden  grain; 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look  for  thee? 

Is  it  when  spring's  first  gale 
Comes  forth  to  whispei  where  the  violets  lie? 

Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow  pale? 
They  have  one  season — all  are  ours  to  die ! 

Thou  art  where  billows  foam, 
Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air ; 

Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home, 
And  the  world  calls  us  forth— and  thou  art  there ! 

Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest; 

Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe,  and  trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the  princely  crest. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  0  Death ! 

LIES.  HBMANa 


ftlorning  fjmnn. 


"  Let  there  be  light!"     The  Eternal  spoke, 

And  from  the  abyss  where  darkness  rode 
The  earliest  dawn  of  nature  broke, 

And  light  around  creation  flow'd. 
The  glad  earth  smiled  to  see  the  day, 

The  first-born  day,  come  blushing  in; 
The  young  day  smiled  to  shed  its  ray 

Upon  a  world  untouch' d  by  sin. 

"  Let  there  be  light !"     O'er  heaven  and  earth, 

The  God  who  first  the  day-beam  pour'd, 
Utter'd  again  his  fiat  forth, 

And  shed  the  gospel's  light  abroad  ; 
And,  like  the  dawn,  its  cheering  rays 

On  rich  and  poor  were  meant  to  fall ; 
Inspiring  their  Redeemer's  praise, 

In  lowly  cot  and  lordly  hall. 

Then  come,  when  in  the  orient  first 

Flushes  the  signal-light  for  prayer; 
Come  with  the  earliest  beams  that  burst 

From  God's  bright  throne  of  glory  there. 
Come  kneel  to  Him  who  through  the  night 

Hath  watch'd  above  thy  sleeping  soul, 
To  Him  whose  mercies,  like  his  light, 

Are  shed  abroad  from  pole  to  pole. 

C.    F.    H0FFMA.N. 


(184) 


Scene  in  (f?etl)semane. 


The  moon  was  shining  yet.     The  orient's  brow, 

Set  with  the  morning-star,  was  not  yet  dim  ; 

And  the  deep  silence  which  subdues  the  breath 

Like  a  strong  feeling,  hung  upon  the  world 

As  sleep  upon  the  pulses  of  a  child. 

'T  was  the  last  watch  of  night.     Gethsemane, 

With  its  bathed  leaves  of  silver,  seemed  dissolved 

In  visible  stillness ;  and  as  Jesus'  voice, 

With  its  bewildering  sweetness,  met  the  ear 

Of  his  disciples,  it  vibrated  on, 

Like  the  first  whisper  in  a  silent  world. 

They  came  on  slowly.     Heaviness  oppressM 

The  Saviour's  heart,  and  when  the  kindnesses 

Of  his  deep  love  were  pour'd,  he  felt  the  need 

Of  near  communion,  for  his  gift  of  strength 

Was  wasted  by  the  spirit's  weariness. 

He  left  them  there,  and  went  a  little  on ; 

And  in  the  depth  of  that  hush'd  silentness, 

Alone  with  God,  he  fell  upon  his  face, 

And  as  his  heart  was  broken  with  the  rush 

Of  his  surpassing  agony,  and  death, 

Wrung  to  him  from  a  dying  universe, 

Was  mightier  than  the  Son  of  man  could  bear, 

He  gave  his  sorrows  way — and  in  the  deep 

Prostration  of  his  soul,  breathed  out  the  prayer, 

"  Father,  if  it  be  possible  with  thee, 

Let  this  cup  pass  from  me."     Oh,  how  a  word, 

Like  the  forced  drop  before  the  fountain  breaks, 


( 183 .) 


186  SCENE   IN    GETHSEMANE. 

Stilleth  the  press  of  human  agony  ! 

The  Saviour  felt  its  quiet  in  his  soul ; 

And  though  his  strength  was  weakness,  and  the  light 

Which  led  him  on  till  now  was  sorely  dim, 

He  breathed  a  new  submission — "  Not  my  will, 

But  thine  be  done,  0  Father!"     As  he  spoke, 

Voices  were  heard  in  heaven,  and  music  stole 

Out  from  the  chambers  of  the  vaulted  sky, 

As  if  the  stars  were  swept  like  instruments. 

No  cloud  was  visible,  but  radiant  wings 

Were  coming  with  a  silvery  rush  to  earth  ; 

And  as  the  Saviour  rose,  a  glorious  one, 

With  an  illumined  forehead,  and  the  light 

Whose  fountain  is  the  mystery  of  God, 

Encalm'd  within  his  eye,  bow'd  down  to  him, 

And  nerved  him  with  a  ministry  of  strength. 

It  was  enough — and  with  his  godlike  brow 

Re-written  of  his  Father's  messenger, 

With  meekness,  whose  divinity  is  more 

Than  power  and  glory,  he  return'd  again 

To  his  disciples,  and  awaked  their  sleep ; 

For  "  he  that  should  betray  him  was  at  hand." 


Reflections  on  a  Skull. 


Behold  this  ruin!  'twas  a  skull, 

Once  of  ethereal  spirit  full : 

This  narrow  cell  was  life's  retreat; 

This  space  was  thought's  mysterious  seat. 

What  beauteous  pictures  fill'd  this  spot, 

What  dreams  of  pleasure  long  forgot! 

Nor  love,  nor  joy,  nor  hope,  nor  fear 

Has  left  one  trace  or  record  here. 

Beneath  this  mouldering  canopy, 
Once  shone  the  bright  and  lovely  eye; 
But  start  not  at  the  empty  cell ; 
If  on  the  Cross  it  loved  to  dwell, 
If  with  no  lawless  fire  it  gleam'd, 
But  with  contrition's  tear-drop  beam'd, 
That  eye  shall  shine  for  ever  bright, 
When  suns  and  stars  have  lost  their  light. 

Here  in  this  silent  cavern  hung 
The  ready,  swift,  and  tuneful  tongue ; 
If  of  redeeming  love  it  spoke, 
Confessing  Jesus'  easy  yoke, 


(  187  ) 


100  REFLECTIONS    ON    A    SKULL. 

If  with  persuasive  mildness  bold, 
Condemning  sin,  of  grace  it  told; 
That  tuneful  tongue  in  realms  above, 
Shall  sing  Messiah's  reign  of  love. 

Say,  did  these  fingers  delve  the  mine, 
Or  with  its  envied  rubies  shine  % 
To  hew  the  rock  or  wear  the  gem, 
Can  nothing  now  avail  to  them ; 
But  if  the  page  of  truth  they  sought, 
Or  comfort  to  the  mourner  brought, 
Those  hands  shall  strike  the  lyre  of  praise, 
And  high  the  palm  of  triumph  raise. 

Avails  not  whether  bare  or  shod, 
These  feet  the  path  of  life  had  trod, 
If  from  the  bower  of  joy  they  fled, 
To  soothe  affliction's  humble  bed ; 
If  spurning  all  the  world  bestow'd, 
They  sought  the  strait  and  narrow  road, 
These  feet  with  angel's  wings  shall  vie, 
And  tread  the  palace  of  the  sky. 

ANONYMOUS. 


Conging  for  (5car)Cn- 


RISE,  my  soul,  and  stretch  thy  wings, 

Thy  better  portion  trace; 
Rise  from  transitory  things, 

Toward  heaven,  thy  native  place. 
Sun,  and  moon,  and  stars,  decay, 

Time  shall  soon  this  earth  remove; 
Rise,  my  soul,  and  haste  away 

To  seats  prepared  above. 

Rivers  to  the  ocean  run, 

Nor  stay  in  all  their  course : 
Fire  ascending  seeks  the  sun — 

Both  speed  them  to  their  source. 
So  a  soul  new-born  of  God 

Pants  to  view  his  glorious  face; 
Upward  tends  to  his  abode, 

To  rest  in  his  embrace. 

Cease,  ye  pilgrims,  cease  to  mourn, 

Press  onward  to  the  prize : 
Soon  the  Saviour  will  return 

Triumphant  in  the  skies. 
Yet  a  season,  and  you  know 

Happy  entrance  will  be  given, 
All  our  sorrows  left  below, 

And  earth  exchanged  for  heaven. 


(189) 


<EI)e  STtuo  Norsemen. 


He  cometh!  he  cometh!  the  death-dealing-  king; 

His  pale  steed  is  fleet  as  the  hurricane's  wing : 

Around  him  are  ravening-  the  monsters  of  hell, 

Earth  shrinks  from  their  aspect,  and  shakes  with  their  yell. 

He  cometh  !  he  cometh !  with  sword  dripping  gore : 
Desolation  behind  him,  and  terror  before: 
His  banner  of  darkness  above  him  is  spread, 
With  pestilent  vapour  earth  smokes  at  his  tread. 

Her  kings  and  her  captains  oppose  him  in  vain; 
Her  mantle  no  longer  can  cover  her  slain ; 
The  great  are  down-trampled,  the  mighty  ones  fail, 
And  their  armies  are  scatter'd  like  leaves  on  the  gale. 

The  beasts  of  the  forest  exult  o'er  their  prey, 
Grim  Slaughter  mows  onward  his  merciless  way, 
Gaunt  Famine,  and  livid  Disease,  at  his  side, 
O'er  monarchs  and  nations  triumphantly  ride. 

And  now  from  their  slumber  the  tempests  awaken : 
They  rage,  and  the  stars  from  their  orbits  are  shaken ; 
The  sun  gathers  blackness,  the  moon  turns  to  blood, 
The  heavens  pass  away ;  and  the  isles  from  the  flood. 


(190) 


tiii:  TWO  IIORSEMI.N.  191 

And  tnc  mountains  from  earth,  at  the  tumult  retreat: 
The  prince  and  the  peasant — the  abject,  the  great — 
The  youthful,  the  aged — the  fearful,  the  brave — 
The  strong  man,  the  feeble — the  freeman,  the  slave, 

To  caverns  and  dens  for  a  hiding-place  run ; 
But  who  the  keen  eye  of  Jehovah  can  shun1? 
From  his  face  to  conceal  them,  despairing  they  call 
To  the  rocks  and  the  mountains  upon  them  to  fall : 

In  vain;  for  the  day  of  decision  at  last 

Has  dawn'd,  and  the  season  of  mercy  is  past : 

He  cometh  from  heaven,  with  the  sword  and  the  rod, 

Who  shall  tread  in  his  fury  the  wine-press  of  God. 

His  angel  the  fowls  is  inviting  aloud 

To  the  carnage  of  steeds  and  their  riders  to  crowd, 

Whose  flesh  shall  be  mangled,  whose  blood  shall  be  spill'd, 

That  the  vultures  and  ravens  may  eat  and  be  fill'd. 

He  cometh  !  he  cometh !  how  glorious  the  sight ! 
His  horse  as  the  snow  newly  fallen  is  white ; 
On  his  head  are  the  crowns  that  betoken  his  power, 
From  his  eyes  flash  red  lightnings  his  foes  to  devour. 

In  blood  has  the  vesture  been  dipp'd  that  he  wears, 
And  a  name  on  his  thigh  and  his  vesture  he  bears ; 
The  Sovereign  of  sovereigns,  that  loftiest  of  names, 
And  Lord  of  all  lords,  its  possessor  proclaims. 

And  white  are  the  horses,  as  snow  without  stain, 
Of  the  thousands  of  thousands  who  ride  in  his  train ; 
And  white  and  unspotted  the  robes  he  has  given 
To  be  worn  on  this  day  by  the  armies  of  heaven. 


192  THE  TWO  HORSEMEN. 

The  bow  in  his  hand,  lo!  unerring  he  bends, 
With  the  sword  from  his  mouth  every  spirit  he  rends 
By  his  rod  are  down-smitten  all  they  that  oppose, 
And  from  conquering  to  conquer  resistless  he  goes. 

The  beast,  the  false  prophet,  and  Satan,  and  death, 
He  thrusts  to  the  pit  that  is  yawning  beneath ; 
Where  tortures  unceasing  their  vitals  shall  rend, 
And  the  smoke  of  their  torment  for  ever  ascend. 

But  see,  where  his  presence  the  darkness  illumes, 
How  lovely  the  aspect  creation  assumes  ! 
New  heavens,  a  new  earth,  a  new  ocean  arise 
That  fill  every  heart  with  a  welcome  surprise. 

A  city  majestic  and  spacious  appears, 
Which  sin  cannot  enter,  where  dried  are  all  tears ; 
With  beauty  resplendent,  from  dangers  secure ; 
Where  fruits  as  perennial,  and  waters  as  pure 

As  He  who  erects  it,  the  blessed  await : 
With  shoutings  of  triumph  they  enter  the  gate, 
With  God,  their  Redeemer,  for  ever  to  reign, 
And  it  closes  on  all  but  the  Lamb  and  his  train. 


Angela. 


With  downy  pinion  they  enfold 

The  heart  surcharged  with  woe, 
And  fan  with  balmy  wing  the  eye, 

Whence  floods  of  sorrow  flow; 
They  bear  in  golden  censers  up 

That  sacred  gift,  a  tear, 
By  which  is  register'd  the  griefs 

Hearts  may  have  sufTer'd  here. 

No  inward  pang,  no  yearning  love 

Is  lost  to  human  hearts ; 
No  anguish  that  the  spirit  feels 

When  bright-wing'd  hope  departs  : 
Though  in  the  mystery  of  life 

Discordant  powers  prevail, 
That  life  itself  be  weariness, 

And  sympathy  may  fail ; 

Yet  all  becomes  a  discipline 

To  lure  us  to  the  sky ; 
And  angels  bear  the  good  it  brings 

Writh  fostering  care  on  high. 
Though  others,  weary  at  the  watch. 

May  sink  to  toil-spent  sleep, 
And  we  are  left  in  solitude 

And  agony  to  weep — 

Yet  they  with  ministering  zeal 

The  cup  of. healing  bring, 
And  bear  our  love  and  gratitude 

Away  on  heavenly  wing. 
And  thus  the  inner  life  is  wrought, 

The  blending  earth  and  heaven — 
The  love  more  earnest  in  its  glow, 

Where  much  has  been  forgiven. 

ELIZABETH    OAKES    SMITH. 
13  (193) 


lUmom. 


Wo !  wo  to  him  whose  heart  is  black 

With  evil  deeds  that  sting  and  stain, 
And  blasted  like  the  lightning's  track, 

That  stretches  o'er  the  summer  plain ! 

To  him  !  for  all  it  doth  contain, 
Its  sun  and  sky,  its  flowers  and  streams, 

The  earth  is  but  a  dark  domain. 
All  swarming  with  terrific  dreams  ! 

The  flower  that  opens  to  the  sky, 

And  sparkles  in  the  morning  rays, 
Reminds  him  of  the  purity, 

The  loveliness  of  former  days ; 

The  stream  that  all  untroubled  strays 
Through  the  lily  banks  and  palmy  bowers, 

Reminds  him  of  his  blissful  ways, 
Ere  sin  had  wither'd  all  their  flowers. 

His  memory  of  the  seasons  past 

Is  but  of  pleasures  that  have  fled 
Away,  like  rose-leaves  on  the  blast — 

Away,  like  the  departed  dead  ; 

His  future  hopes,  that  wont  to  shed 
A  radiance  through  his  hours  of  gloom, 

Are  dreary  as  the  shades  that  spread 
Around  a  murderer's  midnight  tomb  ! 


(194) 


REMORSE*  |95 

His  waking  thoughts  are  like  a  flame 

That  burns  within  him — fierce,  though  dim  ! 
Like  fever  in  his  wasting  frame, 

That  thrills  through  every  quaking  limb: 

His  dreams  of  rest — no  rest  to  him — 
Are  fill'd  with  phantoms  of  affright; 

Phantoms  of  happy  days,  that  swim 
Around  him  on  the  clouds  of  night. 

His  life  is  an  oppressive  load, 

That  hangs  upon  him  like  a  curse; 
For  all  the  pleasure-thoughts  that  glow'd, 

Are  now  extinguish'd  by  Remorse  ! 

And  death — oh,  death !  'tis  worse  !  'tis  worse ! 
How  dreadful  in  the  grave  to  lie, 

Yet  sleep  not ! — evermore  to  nurse 
The  worm  that  will  not,  cannot  die ! 

Wo  !  wo  to  him — his  name  is  felt 

Like  poison  on  the  pious  tongue : 
He  dare  not  kneel,  as  once  he  knelt 

In  prayer  to  God,  when  pure  and  young  : 

Yet  cling  to  God  as  thou  hast  clung, 
Lorn  wretch !  amid  thy  spirit's  strife 

Repent,  while  thus  thy  heart  is  wrung, 
For  there  is  hope  while  there  is  life. 


dlje  Sou)  in  tl)e  (Elouir. 


And  I  will  establish  my  covenant  with  you ;  neither  shall  all  flesh  be  cut  off  any  more  by  the 
waters  of  a  flood  ;  neither  shall  there  be  any  more  a  flood  to  destroy  the  earth. 

And  God  said,  This  is  the  token  of  the  covenant  which  I  make  between  me  and  you,  and  every 
living  creature  that  is  with  you,  for  perpetual  generations. 

I  do  set  my  Bow  in  the  Cloud,  and  it  shall  be  for  a  token  of  a  covenant  between  me  and  the 
earth.— Genesis  ix.  11,  12,  13. 


Hail  !  beauteous  meteor  of  the  thousand  dyes, 

Emblazon'd  like  a  trophy  on  the  skies. 

Heaven's  richest  hues  inlay  thy  lightsome  span, 

Kindled  to  glory  for  a  sign  to  man. 

Those  vivid  tints  that  through  the  welkin  shine, 

Proclaim  thy  matchless  Architect  divine. 

Gemm'd  by  the  rain-drops  was  the  tissue  spun, 

With  golden  threads,  irradiate  of  the  sun, 

Like  stars  enwreath'd,  whose  myriad  spangles  throw 

The  prism's  gay  lustre  to  the  world  below. 

Weft  of  mute  music  thou,  whose  pictured  tones 

Blend  in  accord,  and  melt  in  kindred  zones. 

Sweet  solace  ours,  when  lurid  tempests  frown, 
To  mark  thy  gradual  braid  the  horizon  crown  ! 
First,  faint,  brief  segments  spring  on  either  hand, 
Whence  lost  abrupt,  soon  longer  curves  expand  ; 
More  massive,  high  uprear'd,  the  glowing  form 
In  bolder  contrast  now  bestrides  the  storm. 
Fain  its  bright  column  would  our  arms  embrace, 
Yet  at  each  step  a  fleeting  beam  we  chase ; 
And  whilst  we  fear,  lest,  ere  the  whole  be  view'd, 
The  subtle  vision  may  our  sight  elude, 

(196) 


tiik    now    in   THE   CLOUD.  HJ7 

Mercy,  fleet  herald  from  the  reilms  above, 
Buoy'd  in  the  ambient  air  of  heavenly  love, 
With  steadfast  key-link  binds  the  quivering  arch, 
Then  speeds  thereon  to  earth  her  volant  march. 

See !  through  the  dark  depths  of  the  unfathom'd  main 
The  mirror'd  brilliance  softly  gleams  again; 
Warning  the  surges  that  their  ruthless  might 
No  more  shall  revel  on  the  mountain  height, 
Nor  through  the  fertile  banks  and  valleys  rave, 
Engulfing  nature  in  the  whirling  wave. 
No !  for  when  'neath  Armenia's  summits  hoar 
The  shrunken  waters  lash'd  their  slimy  shore, 
And  found,  whene'er  they  strove  beyond  to  roam, 
The  rising  cliffs  rebuke  their  baffled  foam  ; — 
When  the  glad  fathers  of  man's  rescued  race, 
Exulting  on  the  lone  ark's  resting-place, 
Had  bent  the  knee,  invoked  the  Almighty  name, 
Drawn  votive  blood,  and  fann'd  the  sacred  flame; — 
When  o'er  fair  nature  burst  that  sunny  smile, 
More  lovely  for  her  glistening  tears  the  while; — 
Then  from  the  heavens  was  heard  an  awful  voice, 
That  bade  the  favour'd  patriarch  rejoice : 
Well  pleased,  the  Deity  had  seen  arise 
Prayer  mingling  with  the  smoke  of  sacrifice ; 
And  now  the  solemn  covenant  He  swore, 
That  he  would  flood  the  new-born  land  no  more ; 
Then  rays  from  heaven  with  tears  from  earth  He  blent, 
And  wrote  his  promise  on  the  firmament. 

View  it,  vain  man,  whose  dull,  unheeding  soul 
No  cheering  hopes,  no  startling  fears  control, 
Nor  the  pale  splendour  of  the  moon  absorbs, 
Nor  the  deep  rapture  of  the  hymning  orbs ; 
Whose  sordid  thought  ne'er  search'd  creation's  laws. 
For  the  vast  goodness  of  the  omniscient  Cause, 


198  THE   BOW   IN    THE    CLOUD. 

Ne'er  felt  ecstatic  joy  when  laughing  May 
Wreathes  with  young  flowers  the  verdant  brow  of  day, 
Nor  own'd,  with  transport  chasten'd,  aw'd,  refined, 
Night  on  the  mountain,  wonder  in  the  wind  : 
Behold !  and  though  thou  deign'st  nought  to  bless, 
Yet  inly  scan  thy  very  nothingness. 

Such  thou  hast  shone,  bright  rainbow  !  when  the  sky 
Hath  clothed  in  clouds  its  blue  serenity ; 
And  such  shalt  shine ;  while,  grateful  for  the  vow, 
All  nations  of  the  earth  to  heaven  shall  bow. 
Curbing  the  tempest  on  its  thunder  path, 
Chaining  the  boisterous  billows  in  their  wrath ; 
Majestic  symbol  of  thy  Maker's  might! 
Girdle  of  beauty  !  coronal  of  light ! 
God's  own  blest  handmark,  mystic,  sure,  sublime, 
Graven  in  glory  to  the  end  of  time  ! 

Nor  dost  thou  live  for  earth  and  time  alone : 
In  Paradise,  around  the  eternal  throne, 
Thine  emerald  lightnings  play  ;  thine  every  gem 
Is  treasured  for  the  Conqueror's  diadem. 
When,  with  a  shout  that  will  earth's  centre  rend, 
Christ,  with  his  saints  and  angels  shall  descend, 
Careering  kingly  over  sun  and  star, 
The  winds  his  coursers,  and  a  cloud  his  car : — 
No  watery  deluge  then  earth's  funeral  pall, 
But  sulphurous  flames  enwrap  the  reeling  ball. 
Thus  thy  triumphal  banner  floats  unfurl'd 
Above  the  wrecks  of  this  self-ruin'd  world, 
From  cloud,  from  throne,  from  crown,  betokening  mild 
Jehovah  to  lost  sinners  reconciled. 

ANONYMOUS. 


£1  £itami. 


SAVIOUR  !  when  in  dust  to  thee 
Low  we  bow  the  adoring  knee, 
When,  repentant,  to  the  skies 
Scarce  we  lift  our  streaming  eyes; 
Oh  !  by  all  the  pains  and  wo, 
Suflfer'd  once  for  man  below, 
Bending  from  thy  throne  on  high, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany ! 

By  thy  helpless  infant  years, 
By  thy  life  of  wants  and  tears, 
By  thy  days  of  sore  distress 
In  the  savage  wilderness ; 
By  the  dread  permitted  hour 
Of  th'  insulting  tempter's  power — 
Turn,  O,  turn  a  pitying  eye, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany ! 

By  the  sacred  griefs  that  wept 
O'er  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept- 
By  the  boding  tears  that  flow'd 
Over  Salem's  loved  abode — 
By  the  anguish'd  tear  that  told 
Treachery  lurk'd  within  thy  fold — 
From  thy  seat  above  the  sky, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany  ! 


(  199 ) 


200  A   LITANY. 

By  thine  hour  of  dire  despair, 
By  thine  agony  of  prayer, 
By  the  cross,  the  nail,  the  thorn, 
Piercing  spear,  and  torturing  scorn, 
By  the  gloom  that  veil'd  the  skies 
O'er  the  dreadful  sacrifice ; 
Listen  to  our  humble  cry, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany ! 

By  the  deep  expiring  groan, 
By  the  sad  sepulchral  stone, 
By  the  vault  whose  dark  abode 
Held  in  vain  the  rising  God ; 
Oh!  from  earth  to  heaven  restored, 
Mighty  re-ascended  Lord, 
Listen,  listen  to  the  cry 
Of  our  solemn  litany ! 

K.    GRANT. 


Cittlc  Cl)tlbim 


Speak  gently  to  the  little  child, 

So  guileless  and  so  free, 
Who  with  a  trustful,  loving  heart 

Puts  confidence  in  thee. 
Speak  not  the  cold  and  careless  words 

Which  time  has  taught  thee  well, 
Nor  breathe  one  thought  whose  sadden'd  tone 

Despair  might  seem  to  tell. 

If  on  his  brow  there  rests  a  cloud, 

However  light  it  be, 
Speak  loving  words,  and  let  him  feel 

He  has  a  friend  in  thee ; 
And  do  not  send  him  from  thy  side, 

Till  on  his  face  shall  rest 
The  joyous  look  and  sunny  smile, 

That  mark  a  happy  breast. 

Oh,  teach  him  this  should  be  his  aim, 

To  cheer  the  aching  heart, 
To  strive  where  thickest  darkness  reigns, 

Some  radiance  to  impart; 
To  spread  a  peaceful,  quiet  calm, 

Where  dwells  the  noise  of  strife, 
Thus  doing  good,  and  blessing  all, 

To  spend  the  whole  of  life. 

To  love  with  pure  affection  deep 

All  creatures,  great  and  small, 
And  still  a  stronger  love  to  bear 

For  Him  who  made  them  all. 


(-H)i) 


202  LITTLE    CHILDREN. 

Remember,  'tis  no  common  task 
That  thus  to  thee  is  given, 

To  rear  a  spirit  fit  to  be 
The  habitant  of  Heaven ! 

MARY   J.    REED. 


So  not  blame  me. 


I've  been  thinking  of  my  faults,  till  my  heart  is  like  to  break, 
How  very  many  are  the  foes,  how  few  the  friends  I  make ; 
And  still  within  my  hidden  heart  sincere  affection  lies, 
The  priceless  gift  of  human  love,  I  well  know  how  to  prize. 

Yet  often  those  I  love  the  most,  have  not  one  thought  for  me, 
When  looking  up  for  kindly  smiles,  indifference  I  see; 
And  then  the  pleasant  words  that  rose  upon  my  lips  have  died, 
Leaving  me  mournfully  to  crush  my  sorrow  and  my  pride. 

I  strive  that  I  may  not  offend,  I  check  each  careless  word, 
I  seek  to  hide  from  other  ears  dark  tales  my  own  have  heard, 
I  would  not,  even  by  a  thought,  add  to  another's  grief; 
Yet  often  I  have  given  pain,  where  I  would  bring  relief. 

And  sometimes,  when  my  changeful  mood  brings  feelings  wild  and 

gay, 
When  in  my  eagerness  I  cease  to  guard  whate'er  I  say, 
A  word  which  in  itself  was  naught,  is  made  to  seem  unkind, 
Bright  thoughts  for  evil  ones  are  changed,  and  tears  for  smiles  I  find. 

I  am  lonely,  very  lonely,  my  heart  is  throbbing  fast, 

And  tears  are  gathering  in  my  eyes  for  follies  that  are  past; 

Yet  know  I  that  by  suffering  the  spirit  is  made  pure, 

So  I  would  calmly  bear  the  pain  God  wills  I  should  endure. 

ALICE    B.    NEAX. 


tljc  (Conqueror  from  Cbom  cuifr  Sojral). 


Oh  !  who  is  it  comes  from  the  field  of  the  slain 
Array'd  in  his  garb  of  the  dark  crimson  stain? 
Who  is  it  that  passes  thus  wrathfully  by, 
With  his  raiment  so  deeply  empurpled  in  dye? 

"  It  is  I,  it  is  I,  who  have  risen  at  length, 

In  the  day  of  my  wrath,  with  the  sword  of  my  strength ; 

It  is  I,  who  have  spoken,  nor  spoken  in  vain, 

For  I  have  return'd  from  the  field  of  the  slain!" 

And  why,  O  thou  Victor,  and  why  thus  imbue 

Thy  garments  of  snow  with  the  deep  crimson  hue  1 

And  why,  mighty  Victor,  thy  raiment  thus  red, 

As  though  thou  hadst  trodden  where  thousands  had  bled  1 

"  I  have  trodden  the  wine-press  of  Edom  alone; 
Yet  their  armies  are  scatterM — their  banners  are  strown ; 
And  still  will  I  tread  o'er  the  hosts  of  their  pride, 
Till  in  crimson  yet  deeper  my  raiment  is  dyed. 

There  was  not  a  helper  in  Israel  that  day, 

No  arm  that  could  save  from  the  hostile  array, — 

I  look'd — but  alas  !  there  was  no  one  to  save, 

No  hand  that  could  snatch  from  the  grasp  of  the  grave ! 

But  I  have  arisen — arisen  at  length, 
In  the  day  of  my  wrath,  with  the  sword  of  my  strength  ; 
With  the  seal  on  my  arm,  and  the  stain  on  my  vest, 
And  where  I  have  fought  shall  my  people  be  blest!" 

ROGERS. 
(  903  ) 


JDecttl)'0  final  donquest. 


THE  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things ; 
There  is  no  armour  against  fate : 
Death  lays  her  icy  hands  on  kings ; 
Sceptre  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor,  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill ; 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield ; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still. 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 
And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow, 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds ; 
Upon  death's  purple  altar  now 

See  where  the  victor  victim  bleeds  : 
All  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb, 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  the  dust. 

JAMES   SHIRLEY,  Iff 
(204) 


SabbatI)  ffiljottgljti 


Welcome,  thou  peaceful  dawn ! 

O'er  field  and  wooded  lawn 
The  wonted  sound  of  busy  toil  is  laid. 

And  hark !  the  village  bell ! 

Whose  simple  tinklings  swell, 
Sweet  as  soft  music  on  the  straw-roof 'd  shed, 
And  bid  the  pious  cottager  prepare 
To  keep  the  appointed  rest,  and  seek  the  house  of  prayer. 

How  goodly  'tis  to  see 

The  rustic  family 
Duly  along  the  church-way  path  repair : 

The  mother,  trim  and  plain, 

Leading  her  ruddy  train, 
The  father  pacing  slow  with  modest  air. 
With  honest  heart  and  humble  guise  they  come, 
To  serve  Almighty  God,  and  bear  his  blessing  home 

At  home  they  gayly  share 

Their  sweet  and  simple  fare, 
And  thank  the  Giver  of  the  festal  board  : 

Around  the  blazing  hearth 

They  sit  in  harmless  mirth, 
Or  turn  with  awe  the  volume  of  the  Lord  : 
Then  full  of  heavenly  joy,  retiring  pay 
Their  sacrifice  of  prayer  to  Him  who  bless'd  the  day 

0  Sabbath-bell,  thy  voice 
Makes  hearts  like  these  rejoice; 
Not  so  the  child  of  vanity  and  power. 

( -20.-,  ) 


206  SABBATH    THOUGHTS. 

He  the  blest  pavement  treads 

Perchance  as  custom  bids, 
Perchance  to  gaze  away  a  listless  hour ; 
Then  crowns  the  bowl,  or  roams  along  the  road, 
Nor  hides  his  shame  from  men,  nor  heeds  the  eye  of  God. 

When  the  seventh  morning's  gleam 

Purpled  the  lonely  stream, 
On  its  green  bank  of  old  the  Christian  bow'd. 

The  hand  adoring  spread, 

And  broke  the  mystic  bread ; 
And,  leagued  in  bonds  of  holy  concord,  vow'd 
From  the  cleansed  heart  to  wash  each  foul  offence, 
And  give  his  days  to  peace  and  saintly  innocence. 

In  vain  the  Roman  lord 

Waved  the  relentless  sword, 
And  spread  the  terrors  of  the  circling  flame  ; 

In  vain  the  heathen  sought, 

If  chance  some  lurking  spot 
Might  mar  the  lustre  of  the  Christian  name, 
Th'  Eternal  Spirit  by  his  fruits  confess'd, 
In  life  secured  from  stains,  and  steel'd  in  death  the  breast. 

Oh  would  his  influence  bless 

With  faith  and  holiness, 
The  laggard  people  of  our  favour'd  isle ! 

But  if  too  deep  and  wide 

Heaven  spread  corruption's  tide, 
Oh  might  he  deign  on  me  and  mine  to  smile ; 
So  shall  we  ne'er  with  due  devotion  fail 
The  consecrated  day  of  solemn  rest  to  hail : 

So  shall  we  still  resort 
To  Sion's  hallow'd  court, 
And  lift  the  heart  to  Him  that  dwells  above ; 


SABBATH    THOUGHTS.  J<  )7 


Thence,  home  returning,  muse 

On  sweet  and  solemn  views, 
Or  fill  the  mind  with  acts  of  holy  love ; 
Then  lay  us  down  in  peace,  to  think  we're  given 
Another  precious  day  to  fit  our  souls  for  heaven. 


funeral  Qrimn. 


Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave  !  but  we  will  not  deplore  thee, 
Though  sorrow's  and  darkness  encompass  the  tomb ; 

The  Saviour  has  pass'd  through  its  portals  before  thee, 
And  the  lamp  of  his  love  is  thy  guide  through  the  gloom. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave!  we  no  longer  behold  thee, 
Nor  tread  the  rough  paths  of  the  world  by  thy  side, 

But  the  wide  arms  of  mercy  are  spread  to  enfold  thee, 
And  sinners  may  hope  since  the  Sinless  hath  died. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave !  and  its  mansion  forsaking, 
Perchance  thy  weak  spirit  in  doubt  linger' d  long, 

But  the  sunshine  of  heaven  beam'd  bright  on  thy  waking, 
And  the  sound  which  thou  heard'st  was  the  seraphim's  song. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave  !  but  'twere  vain  to  deplore  thee, 
When  God  was  thy  ransom,  thy  guardian,  thy  guide, 

He  gave  thee,  he  took  thee,  and  he  will  restore  thee, 
And  death  hath  no  sting  since  the  Saviour  hath  died. 

BISHOP  HEBER. 


2l)c  jTtgt)t  into  Cgupt. 


The  Star !  the  strange  bright  Star ! 

In  the  broad  heavens  it  blazed  alone. 
And  led  the  Sages  of  the  East  from  far 

To  seek  the  King  unknown ! 

The  Star  !  the  strange  bright  Star ! 
It  track'd  their  path  o'er  deserts  yet  untrod 
By  foot  of  man — unseen,  except  of  God. 

At  length  it  seem'd  to  rest — 
Yet  not  on  gilded  dome  or  stately  tower, 
The  home  of  royalty,  the  seat  of  power 
But  o'er  a  rustic  dwelling,  mean  and  rude, 
Alone  amidst  encircling  solitude. 
There,  on  the  earth,  in  peasant  garb  array'd, 
They  found  a  youthful  mother,  lowly  laid ; — 

An  infant  at  her  breast. 

The  Star  !  the  strange  bright  Star ! 

Hath  it  indeed  unerring  shone, 
To  guide  their  devious  footsteps  from  afar? 

Is  this  the  King  unknown  1 

The  Star !  the  strange  bright  Star ! 
Swift  as  the  lightning-flash,  its  lucid  ray 
Shot  from  the  heavens,  and  flood  of  sudden  day 


(  206  ) 


THE    FLIGHT    INTO    EGYPT. 

Through  the  low  dwelling  pourM  ; 
Then  floated  o'er  the  couch,  and  settled  now, 
A  wreath  of  glory,  round  the  Infant's  brow. 
The  awe-struck  sages  knew  the  heavenly  sign, 
And  paid  glad  homage  to  the  Babe  divine ; 
Then,  Heaven-instructed,  to  their  home  afar 
Retum'd,  and  inly  bless'd  the  mystic  Star 

Which  led  them  to  their  Lord  ! 

The  Star  !  the  strange  bright  Star  ! 

Where  is  it  now  1 — The  holy  Child 
Is  driven  by  tyrant's  hate  to  seek  afar 

A  home  amidst  the  wild. 

The  Star!  the  strange  bright  Star! 
Why  gleams  it  not  to  gild  the  starless  night, 
And  guide  the  holy  exiles  in  their  flight? 

Nay,  from  the  Infant's  brow, 
On  his  found  mother's  breast  serenely  laid, 
A  stream  of  glory  glistens  through  the  shade. 
He  is  himself  the  Star  !  the  Star  Divine  ! 
Of  Judah's  seed,  and  David's  kingly  line ! 
By  prophet-lips  foretold ;  to  mortals  given, 
A  babe  on  earth,  and  yet  the  Lord  of  heaven. 

Stern  tyrant,  what  art  thou  1 

By  thee  to  Egypt  driven, 
Oh,  blind  and  frantic  in  thy  wrath ! 
Thou  dost  but  work  the  utter'd  will  of  Heaven, 
And  track  the  Saviour's  path. 
The  Star  !  the  strange  bright  Star 


11 


210  THE    FLIGHT    INTO    EGYPT. 

No  longer  shines  ; — but  to  Jehovah's  sight 
Is  not  the  darkness  clear  as  noon-day  light1? 

By  thee  the  Holy  One 
Fulfils  his  purpose.     Thou  hast  drawn  the  sword  : 
'Tis  but  to  prove  how  true  the  prophet's  word 
Of  weeping  Rachel.     Thou  hast  spread  the  snare : 
'Tis  thine  own  foot  that  is  entangled  there. 
To  Egypt  thou  hast  driven  the  Babe  adored  : 
But,  "  Out  of  Egypt,"  saith  the  living  Lord, 

"  I  call  my  Saviour-Son  !" 


:h:i^.s  dale. 


Sleep. 


UNWEARIED  God,  before  whose  face 

The  night  is  clear  as  day, 
Whilst  we,  poor  worms,  o'er  life's  brief  race 

Now  creep,  and  now  delay ; 
We  with  Death's  foretaste  alternate 
Our  labour's  dint  and  sorrow's  weight, 
Save  in  that  fever-troubled  state 

When  pain  and  care  hold  sway. 

Dread  Lord  !  Thy  glory,  watchfulness, 

Is  but  disease  in  man ; 
Oh  !  hence  upon  our  hearts  impress 

Our  place  in  this  world's  plan! 
Pride  grasps  the  powers  by  Heaven  display'd ; 
But  ne'er  the  rebel  effort  made 
Bat  fell  beneath  the  sudden  shade 

Of  nature's  withering  ban. 


P 


®l)c  iJalcbtctton. 


VAIN  world,  what  is  in  thee? 
What  do  poor  mortals  see 
Which  should  esteemed  be, 

Worthy  their  pleasure? 
Is't  children's  book  and  rod, 
The  labourer's  heavy  load, 
Poverty  under-trod, 

The  world  desirethl 
Is  it  distracting  cares, 
Or  heart-tormenting  fears, 
Or  pining  grief  and  tears, 

Which  man  requireth? 

Is  it  deceitful  wealth, 

Got  by  care,  fraud,  or  stealth, 

Or  short,  uncertain  health, 

Which  thus  befool  men? 
Or  do  the  serpent's  lies, 
By  the  world's  flatteries, 
And  tempting  vanities, 

StilL overrule  them] 
Or  do  they  in  a  dream, 

Sleep  out  their  season? 
Or  borne  down  by  lust's  stream, 

Which  conquers  reason ! 

What  is  the  time  that's  gone, 
And  what  is  that  to  come  ? 
Is  it  not  now  as  none  ? 
The  present  stays  not. 


(211) 


212  THE   VALEDICTION. 

Time  posteth,  oh,  how  fast  I 
Unwelcome  death  makes  haste, 
None  can  call  back  what's  past, 

Judgment  delays  not : 
Though  God  bring  in  the  light, 

Sinners  awake  not ; 
Because  hell's  out  of  sight, 

They  sin  forsake  not. 

Man  walks  in  a  vain  show, 
They  know,  yet  will  not  know, 
Sit  still  when  they  should  go ; 

But  run  for  shadows : 
While  they  might  taste  and  know 
The  living  streams  that  flow 
And  crop  the  flowers  that  grow, 

In  Christ's  sweet  meadows. 
Life's  better  slept  away, 

Than  as  they  use  it : 
In  sin  and  drunken  play, 

Vain  men  abuse  it. 

Malignant  world,  adieu ! 
Where  no  foul  voice  is  new, 
Only  to  Satan  true, 

God  still  offended : 
Though  taught  and  warn'd  by  God, 
And  his  chastising  rod, 
Keeps  still  the  way  that's  broad, 

Never  amended. 
Baptismal  vows  some  make, 

But  ne'er  perform  them ; 
If  angels  from  heaven  spake, 

'Twould  not  reform  them. 


lUljcrc  10  fje? 


And  where  is  he?     Not  by  the  side 

Of  her  whose  wants  he  loved  to  tend ; 
Not  o'er  those  valleys  wandering  wide, 

Where  sweetly  lost,  he  oft  would  wend  ! 
That  form  beloved  he  marks  no  more ; 

Those  scenes  admired  no  more  shall  see — 
Those  scenes  are  lovely  as  before, 

And  she  as  fair — but  where  is  he  ? 

No,  no,  the  radiance  is  not  dim 

That  used  to  gild  his  favourite  hill ; 
The  pleasures  that  were  dear  to  him, 

Are  dear  to  life  and  nature  still : 
But  ah  !  his  home  is  not  so  fair, 

Neglected  must  his  garden  be — 
The  lilies  droop  and  wither  there, 

And  seem  to  whisper,  where  is  he? 

His  was  the  pomp,  the  crowded  hall ! 

But  where  is  now  the  proud  display? 
His  riches,  honours,  pleasures,  all 

Desire  could  frame :  but  where  are  they  ? 
And  he  as  some  tall  rock  that  stands 

Protected  by  the  circling  sea, 
Surrounded  by  admiring  bands, 

Seemed  proudly  strong — and  where  is  he  ? 


( 813 ) 


214  WHERE    IS    HE? 

The  churchyard  bears  an  added  stone, 

The  fireside  shows  a  vacant  chair ! 
Here  sadness  dwells  and  weeps  alone, 

And  death  displays  his  banner  there  ; 
The  life  has  gone,  the  breath  has  fled, 

And  what  has  been  no  more  shall  be ; 
The  well-known  form,  the  welcome  tread, 

Oh !  where  are  they  1  and  where  is  he  1 

NEELB. 


Imitation  of  tljc  Jpcrsian. 


Lord!  who  are  merciful  as  well  as  just, 
Incline  thine  ear  to  me,  a  child  of  dust ! 
Not  what  I  would,  O  Lord  !  1  offer  thee, 

Alas !  but  what  I  can. 
Father  Almighty,  who  hast  made  me  man, 
And  bade  me  look  to  heaven,  for  thou  art  there, 
Accept  my  sacrifice  and  humble  prayer. 
Four  things  which  are  not  in  thy  treasury 
I  lay  before  thee,  Lord,  with  this  petition : 

My  nothingness,  my  wants, 

My  sins,  and  my  contrition. 

SOUTHEY. 


<ffl)tU)rcn  of  Cigljt. 


WALK  in  the  light!  so  shalt  thou  know 

rriiat  fellowship  of  love, 
His  Spirit  only  can  bestow, 

Who  reigns  in  light  above. 
Walk  in  the  light! — and  sin,  abhorr'd, 

Shall  ne'er  defile  again; 
The  blood  of  Jesus  Christ,  the  Lord, 

Shall  cleanse  from  every  stain. 

Walk  in  the  light! — and  thou  shalt  find 

Thy  heart  made  truly  His, 
Who  dwells  in  cloudless  light  enshrin'd, 

In  whom  no  darkness  is. 
Walk  in  the  light! — and  thou  shalt  own 

Thy  darkness  pass'd  away, 
Because  that  light  hath  on  thee  shone 

In  which  is  perfect  day. 

Walk  in  the  light! — and  e'en  the  tomb 

No  fearful  shade  shall  wear; 
Glory  shall  chase  away  its  gloom, 

For  Christ  has  conquer'd  there! 
Walk  in  the  light! — and  thou  shalt  be 

A  path,  though  thorny,  bright; 
For  God,  by  grace,  shall  dwell  in  thee, 

And  God  himself  is  light! 


Bi.ENAED   BAETON. 


(  8W ) 


letmal)  Battle  Song. 


Ho !  Princes  of  Jacob  !  the  strength  and  the  stay 

Of  the  daughter  of  Zion, — now  up,  and  array ; 

Lo,  the  hunters  have  struck  her,  and  bleeding  alone 

Like  a  pard  in  the  desert  she  maketh  her  moan : 

Up,  with  war-horse  and  banner,  with  spear  and  with  sword, 

On  the  spoiler  go  down  in  the  might  of  the  Lord  ! 

She  lay  sleeping  in  beauty,  more  fair  than  the  moon. 
With  her  children  about  her,  like  stars  in  night's  noon, 
When  they  came  to  her  covert,  these  spoilers  of  Rome, 
And  are  trampling  her  children  and  rifling  her  home: 
O,  up,  noble  chiefs !  would  you  leave  her  forlorn, 
To  be  crush'd  by  the  Gentile,  a  mock  and  a  scorn  1 

Their  legions  and  cohorts  are  fair  to  behold, 
With  their  iron-clad  bosoms  and  helmets  of  gold  ; 
But  gorgeous  and  glorious  in  pride  though  they  be, 
Their  avarice  is  broad  as  the  grasp  of  the  sea ; 
They  talk  not  of  pity ;  the  mercies  they  feel 
Are  cruel  and  fierce  as  their  death-doing  steel. 

Will  they  laugh  at  the  hind  they  have  struck  to  the  earth, 
When  the  bold  stag  of  Naphtali  bursts  on  their  mirth  1 
Will  they  dare  to  deride  and  insult,  when  in  wrath 
The  lion  of  Judah  glares  wild  in  their  path  1 
O,  say,  will  they  mock  us,  when  down  on  the  plain 
The  hoofs  of  our  steeds  thunder  over  their  slain  1 


(2](3) 


JKWISII*  BATTLE    SONG.  217 

They  come  with  their  plumes  tossing  haughty  and  free, 

And  white  as  the  crest  of  the  old  hoary  sea  ; 

Yet  they  float  not  so  fierce  as  the  wild  lion's  mane, 

To  whose  lair  ye  have  track'd  him,  whose  whelps  ye  have  slain; 

But,  dark  mountain  archer !  your  sinews  to-day 

Must  be  strong  as  the  spear-shaft  to  drive  in  the  prey. 

And  the  tribes  are  all  gathering; — the  valleys  ring  out 

To  the  peal  of  the  trumpet, — the  timbrel — the  shout : 

Lo,  Zebulon  comes !  he  remembers  the  day 

When  they  perill'd  their  lives  to  the  death  in  the  fray; 

And  the  riders  of  Naphtali  burst  from  the  hills 

Like  a  mountain-swollen  stream  in  the  pride  of  its  rills. 

Like  Sisera's  rolls  the  foe's  chariot  wheel, 

And  he  comes,  like  the  Philistine,  girded  in  steel; 

Like  both  shall  he  perish,  if  ye  are  but  men, 

If  your  javelins  and  hearts  are  as  mighty  as  then; 

He  trusts  in  his  buckler,  his  spear  and  his  sword; 

His  strength  is  but  weakness  ;— we  trust  in  the  Lord  ! 

GEORGE  LUNT. 


(Hje  Qctrocat  of  tl)c  £oriX 


The  angel  comes,  he  comes  to  reap 

The  harvest  of  the  Lord ! 
O'er  all  the  earth,  with  fatal  sweep, 

Wide  waves  his  flaming  sword. 

And  who  are  they  in  sheaves,  to  bide 
The  fire  of  vengeance,  bound  1 

The  tares,  whose  rank  luxuriant  pride 
Choked  the  fair  crop  around. 

And  who  are  they  reserved  in  store, 
God's  treasure-house  to  fill] 

The  wheat,  a  hundred  fold  that  bore 
Amid  surrounding  ill. 

O  King  of  mercy !  grant  us  power 

Thy  fiery  wrath  to  flee ! 
In  thy  destroying  angel's  hour 

Oh,  gather  us  to  thee ! 


(218) 


£l)c  fllaib  of  Sk&ahima. 


XELIA  sat  beside  her  window- 
As  the  golden  sun  went  down, 

Sadly  gazing  through  the  lattice, 
While  flow'd  on  the  busy  town; 

And  there  came  from  by  the  river, 
In  the  tall  cathedral's  shade, 

This  low  song  from  unseen  minstrel, 
Song  of  counsel  to  the  maid: 

'  Daughter  of  the  lord  Saldana, 

Mourn  no  longer  broken  ties; 
Beauty  of  our  Andalusia, 

Seek  a  lover  in  the  skies  ! 
There  is  One  whose  love,  excelling 

All  affection  here  below, 
Falters  not  when  night  is  darkest, 

But  grows  deeper  with  our  wo." 

Fortune  fled,  and  worldly  friendships 

Faded  with  the  light  of  gold, 
Xelia  found  a  better  treasure, 

And  a  love  that  grew  not  cold  ; — 
Oh,  there's  but  one  friend  for  ever, 

Whose  affection  will  endure, 
Only  Christ,  on  whom  relying 

We  may  know  our  trust  is  sure. 

From  the  Spanish. 

( W  ) 


losepl)  00  lb  btj  l)is  Brethren. 


Oh,  when  the  avenging  flood 
Swept  the  wide  world,  why  swept  it  not  away 

The  stain  of  innocent  blood  1 — 
The  race  of  Cain  hath  perish'd;  yet  for  aye 

Endures  the  curse  of  Cain! 
Brother  sheds  brother's  blood,  for  vengeance,  or  for  gain. 

In  Dothan's  valleys  lone 
Their  mingled  flocks  ten  shepherd  brethren  feed, 

And  in  the  midst  is  one 
Whom  their  unnatural  hate  had  doom'd  to  bleed; 

But  sin  hath  sin  withstood, 
And  by  the  thirst  of  gold  is  quench'd  the  thirst  for  blood. 

Upon  the  victim's  brow 
In  mystic  vision  blazed  a  regal  crown; — 

They  have  the  dreamer  now, 
Their  knees  to  him  shall  ne'er  in  life  bow  down  : 

For  none  is  nigh  to  save ; 
His  sire  is  far  away — his  mother  in  the  grave ! 

"  Yet  stay  the  avenging  hand," 
One  cried ;   "  what  profit  if  our  brother  bleed  ] 

Behold  yon  merchant-band ! 
Let  them  this  dreaming  boy  in  bondage  lead : 

So  we  shall  share  the  gain, 
And  he  may  dream  at  will — and  dream,  as  now,  in  vain." 

(220) 


JOSEPH    SOLD    BY    HIS    BRETHREN.  22] 

Oh,  fierce  and  stern  of  mood, 
Whom  nor  an  absent  father's  hoary  hair, 

Nor  brother's  kindred  blood, 
Nor  thought  of  Israel's  God  can  win  to  spare ! 

Bears  He  the  sword  in  vain, 
Or  can  ye  do  the  deed,  yet  shun  the  curse  of  Cain? 

Ere  yet  the  deed  is  done — 
Ere  yet  your  hands  have  touch'd  the  accursed  gold, 

Think  on  the  hapless  son, 
Torn  from  a  doting  sire — the  brother,  sold 

By  brethren,  and  the  shame 
Which  must  for  ever  brand  the  base  betrayer's  name. 

Think  of  the  aged  man 
Whose  care  for  you  hath  sent  his  loved  one  hither ! 

Regard  his  waning  span; 
Doom  not  his  dearest  earthly  hopes  to  wither : 

Let  pity  plead  to  save, 
Nor  bring  his  hoary  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave. 

If  love  hath  lost  its  force; 
If  nature's  holiest  ties  no  more  restrain; 

Yet  dread  the  late  remorse, 
The  conscious  writhings,  of  the  outcast  Cain: 

Still  Abel's  God  in  heaven 
Is  Israel's  too,  and  still  that  crime  is  unforgiven. 

Boy,  vainly  dost  thou  plead: 
They  have  no  thoughts  of  pity — cease  thy  prayer! 

The  God  who  marks  the  deed 
Will  guide  thy  course  to  Egypt,  guard  thee  there. 

In  bondage  thou  must  dwell, 
But  they  in  every  breast  shall  bear  a  living  hell ! 


222  JOSEPH    SOLD    BY    HIS    BRETHREN. 

The  pastured  plain  by  day. 
By  night  the  sleepless  couch,  where'er  they  be, 

Or  wandering  far  away, 
Or  in  their  father's  tent,  shall  tell  of  thee : 

Conscience  shall  sting  within, 
And  hate  and  strife  divide  the  brotherhood  of  sin. 

From  God  thy  vision  came, 
He  will  fulfil  it  on  His  own  good  time; 

Thy  servitude  and  shame 
Are  lighter  far  than  their  dark  load  of  crime — 

Thou  still  hast  hope  in  prayer — 
What  can  it  bring  to  them  but  anguish  and  despair? 

Go  then,  and  Israel's  God 
Go  with  thee! — Thou  must  grind  in  bondage  now, 

But  kiss  the  chastening  rod, 
And  yet  the  promised  crown  shall  grace  thy  brow, 

When  all  once  more  shall  meet — 
Thy  father  in  thy  arms  ;  thy  brethren  at  thy  feet ! 

TEOMAS   DALE. 


£o    tl)C    JlotlHTS. 


YE  flowers — ye  little  flowers 

Were  witnesses  of  things, 
More  glorious  and  more  wondrous  far 

Than  the  fall  and  rise  of  kings! — 
Ye,  in  the  vales  of  Paradise, 

Heard  how  the  mountains  rang, 
When  the  sons  of  God  did  shout  for  joy, 

And  the  stars  of  morning  sang  ! 
Ye  saw  the  creatures  of  the  earth, 

Ere  fear  was  felt,  or  pain ; 
Ye  saw  the  lion  with  the  lamb 

Go  sporting  o'er  the  plain  ! 
Ye  were  the  first  that  from  the  earth 

Sprang,  when  the  floods  were  dried, 
And  the  meek  dove  from  out  the  ark 

Went  wandering  far  and  wide; — 
And  when  upon  Mount  Ararat 

The  floating  ark  was  stay'd, 
And  the  freshness  of  the  flowering  earth 

The  Patriarch  first  survey'd, — 
Ye  saw  across  the  heavens 

The  new-made  bended  bow, 
Ye  heard  the  Eternal  bind  himself, 

Upon  its  glorious  show, 
That  never  more  the  waters  wild 

Should  rage  beyond  their  shore ; 
That  harvest-time  and  time  of  seed 

Should  be  for  ever  more. 

MARY  HOWTTT. 


(223) 


ffilje  Christian  JHartor. 


The  eyes  of  thousands  shone  on  him,  as  mid  the  cirque  he  stood, 

Unheeding  all  the  shouts  which  rose  from  that  vast  multitude; 

The  prison  damps  had  blanched  his  cheeks,  and  on  his  thoughtful  face 

Corroding  care  had  left  his  signs  in  many  a  lasting  trace. 

Amid  the  crowded  cirque  he  stood,  and  raised  to  heaven  his  eye, 

For  well  that  feeble  old  man  knew  they  brought  him  there  to  die; 

Yet  joy  was  beaming  in  his  glance,  while  from  his  lips  a  prayer 

Arose  to  heaven  and  faith  secured  his  peaceful  dwelling  there. 

Then  calmly  on  his  foes  he  glanced  ;  and  as  he  gazed  the  tear 

That  stole  adown  his  pale  wan  face  spoke  pity  more  than  fear. 

He  knelt  down  on  the  gory  sand,  once  more  he  look'd  to  heaven, 

And  to  the  Ever  Friend  he  pray'd  that  they  might  be  forgiven. 

Now  rises  far  a  fearful  shout  mid  which  the  lion's  roar 

Is  heard,  like  thunder  in  the  storm  upon  the  rocky  shore ; 

And  forth  the  Lybian  savage  breaks  and  on  his  victim  springs, 

While  all  around  from  men  more  fierce,  the  voice  of  triumph  rings. 

Short  time  is  left  for  fear  or  hope ;  the  instinctive  love  of  life 

One  struggle  makes,  but  vainly  makes,  in  such  unequal  strife ; 

The  lion's  feet,  the  lion's  lips,  are  dyed  with  crimson  gore, — 

A  look  of  faith,  an  unbreathed  prayer,  the  martyr's  pangs  are  o'er. 

Proud  princes  and  grave  senators  gazed  on  that  fearful  sight, 

And  even  woman  seemed  to  share  the  savage  crowd's  delight ; 

But  what  the  guilt  that  on  the  dead  a  fate  so  fearful  drew? 

A  blameless  faith  was  all  the  crime  the  Christian  martyr  knew : 

And  where  the  crimson  current  flowed,  upon  that  barren  sand, 

Up  sprung  a  tree  whose  vigorous  boughs  soon  overspread  the  land ; 

O'er  distant  isles  its  shadow  fell,  nor  knew  its  roots  decay, 

Even  when  the  Roman  Caesar's  throne  and  empire  pass'd  away. 

REV.    HAMILTON  BUCHANAN. 
(224) 


3  am  tllcarn. 


I  am  weary  of  straying — 0  fain  would  I  rest, 
In  the  far  distant  land  of  the  pure  and  the  blest ; 
Where  sin  can  no  longer  her  blandishments  spread, 
And  tears  and  temptations  for  ever  have  fled. 

I  am  weary  of  hoping — where  the  hope  is  untrue: 
As  fair,  but  as  fleeting  as  morning's  bright  dew; 
I  long  for  that  land  whose  blest  promise  alone 
Is  changeless  and  sure  as  eternity's  throne. 

I  am  weary  of  sighing  o'er  sorrows  of  earth, 
O'er  joys  glowing  visions  that  fade  at  their  birth  ; 
O'er  the  pangs  of  the  loved,  that  we  cannot  assuage; 
O'er  the  blightings  of  youth,  and  the  weakness  of  age. 

I  am  weary  of  loving  what  passes  away — 
The  sweetest,  the  dearest,  alas  !  may  not  stay ; 
I  long  for  that  land  where  these  partings  are  o'er, 
And  death  and  the  tomb  can  divide  hearts  no  more. 

I  am  weary,  my  Saviour,  of  grieving  thy  love; 

0  !  when  shall  I  rest  in  thy  presence  above  1 

1  am  weary — but  0  !  let  me  never  repine, 

While  thy  word,  and  thy  love,  and  thy  promise  are  mine. 

ANONYMOUS. 
15  (  225  ) 


21  Prauer  in  Sickness. 


Send  down  thy  winged  angel,  God ! 

Amid  this  night  so  wild ; 
And  bid  him  come  where  now  we  watch, 

And  breathe  upon  our  child  ! 

She  lies  upon  her  pillow,  pale, 

And  moans  within  her  sleep, 
Or  wakeneth  with  a  patient  smile, 

And  striveth  not  to  weep. 

How  gentle  and  how  good  a  child 

She  is,  we  know  too  well, 
And  dearer  to  her  parents'  hearts, 

Than  our  weak  words  can  tell. 

We  love — we  watch  throughout  the  night, 

To  aid,  when  need  may  be  ; 
We  hope  and  have  despair'd,  at  times ; 

But  now  we  turn  to  Thee ! 

Send  down  thy  sweet-soul'd  angel,  God  ! 

Amid  the  darkness  wild, 
And  bid  him  soothe  our  souls  to-night, 

And  heal  our  gentle  child  ! 


PARRY  CORNWALL. 
(  -206  ) 


fllourning  of  Jerusalem. 


ZION,  oh  !  now  thou  art  sad, 

Thy  children  are  weeping  around, 
In  sackcloth  their  bosoms  are  clad 

As  they  look  on  the  famishing  ground ; 
In  the  deserts  they  make  them  a  home, 

And  the  mountains  awake  to  their  cry  ; 
For  the  frown  of  Jehovah  hath  come, 

And  his  anger  is  red  in  the  sky. 

Thy  tender  ones  throng  at  the  brink, 

But  the  waters  are  gone  from  the  well; 
They  gaze  on  the  rock,  and  they  think 

Of  the  gush  of  the  stream  from  its  cell; 
How  they  came  to  its  margin  before, 

And  drank  in  their  innocent  mirth ; 
Away!  it  is  seal'd,  and  no  more 

Shall  the  fountain  give  freshness  to  earth. 

The  hearts  of  the  mighty  are  bow'd, 

And  the  lowly  are  haggard  with  care; 
The  voices  of  mothers  are  loud, 

As  they  shriek  the  wild  note  of  despair. 
Oh,  Jerusalem  !  mourn  through  thy  halls, 

And  bend  to  the  dust  in  thy  shame, 
For  the  doom  that  thy  spirit  appals, 

Is  famine,  the  sword,  and  the  flame  ! 


i 

(  K7  ) 


®l)e  Jail  of  JJabglon. 


O  lift  up  the  banner  on  high  o'er  the  mountain, 
Let  the  trumpet  be  loud,  and  the  cimeter  keen, 

For  Babel  shall  fall  as  a  drop  from  the  fountain, 
And  leave  not  a  trace  where  her  glories  have  been  ! 

The  prince  from  his  hall,  and  the  serf  from  his  labour, 
Shall  gird  on  their  mail  and  wave  high  the  war-sword ; 

But  the  hand  shall  relax  from  its  grasp  of  the  sabre, 
And  the  heart  shall  grow  faint  in  the  wrath  of  the  Lord. 

The  moon  in  her  light,  and  the  sun  in  his  splendour, 
Shall  hide  their  pure  ray  from  the  proud  city's  fall, 

While  thick  clouds  of  mist  and  of  darkness  attend  her, 
And  night  wraps  her  streets  like  a  funeral  pall. 

For  the  Medes  from  the  north  like  a  whirlwind  shall  gather, 
And  Babylon  yield  to  the  might  of  the  brave ; 

While  the  young  blooming  bride,  and  the  gray-headed  father, 
Shall  lay  their  heads  low  in  the  dust  of  the  grave. 

Her  halls  shall  be  still,  and  her  pavement  be  gory, 
Not  a  sound  heard  of  mirth  or  of  revelling  there  ; 

But  the  pride  of  the  Chaldees,  the  boast  of  their  glory, 
Extinguish'd  like  Sodom,  be  blasted  and  bare. 

On  the  spot  where  thou  raisest  thy  front,  mighty  nation, 
Shall  the  owl  have  his  nest,  and  the  wild  beast  his  den  ; 

Thy  courts  shall  be  desert,  thy  name  Desolation, 
Now  the  tyrant  of  cities,  the  jest  of  them  then. 

WOODS. 

(288) 


&§c  Cast  drusakr. 


Left  to  the  Saviour's  conquering  foes, 
The  land  that  girds  the  Saviour's  grave ; 

Where  Godfrey's  crozier-standard  rose, 
He  saw  the  crescent-banner  wave. 

There,  o'er  the  gently-broken  vale, 

The  halo-light  on  Zion  glow'd  ; 
There  Kedron,  with  a  voice  of  wail, 

By  tombs  of  saints  and  heroes  flow'd ; 

There  still  the  olives  silver  o'er 

The  dimness  of  the  distant  hill ; 
There  still  the  flowers  that  Sharon  bore 

Calm  air  with  many  an  odour  fill. 

Slowly  The  Last  Crusader  eyed 

The  towers,  the  mount,  the  stream,  the  plain, 
And  thought  of  those  whose  blood  had  dyed 

The  earth  with  crimson  streams  in  vain ! 

He  thought  of  that  sublime  array, 
The  hosts,  that  over  land  and  deep 

The  hermit  marshall'd  on  their  way, 
To  see  those  towers,  and  halt  to  weep. 

Resign'd  the  loved,  familiar  lands, 
O'er  burning  wastes  the  cross  to  bear, 

And  rescue  from  the  Paynim's  hands 
No  empire  save  a  sepulchre ! 


(•229) 


230  THE    LAST    CRUSADER. 

And  vain  the  hope,  and  vain  the  loss, 
And  vain  the  famine  and  the  strife ; 

In  vain  the  faith  that  bore  the  cross, 
The  valour  prodigal  of  life. 

And  vain  was  Richard's  lion-soul, 

And  guileless  Godfrey's  patient  mind — 

Like  waves  on  shore,  they  reach'd  the  goal, 
To  die,  and  leave  no  trace  behind  ! 

"O  God  !"  the  last  Crusader  cried, 
"  And  art  thou  careless  of  thine  own  1 

For  us  thy  Son  in  Salem  died, 
And  Salem  is  the  scoffer's  throne ! 

"  And  shall  we  leave,  from  age  to  age, 

To  godless  hands  the  holy  tomb? 
Against  thy  saints  the  heathen  rage — 

Launch  forth  thy  lightnings,  and  consume !" 

Swift,  as  he  spoke,  before  his  sight 

A  form  flash'd,  white-robed,  from  above ; 

All  Heaven  was  in  those  looks  of  light, 
But  Heaven,  whose  native  air  is  love. 

"Alas  !"  the  solemn  vision  said, 

"  Thy  God  is  of  the  shield  and  .spear — 

To  bless  the  quick  and  raise  the  dead, 
The  Saviour-God  descended  here  ! 

"  Ah  !  know'st  thou  not  the  very  name 
Of  Salem  bids  thy  carnage  cease — 

A  symbol  in  itself  to  claim 

God's  people  to  a  house  of  peace1? 

"  Ask  not  the  Father  to  reward 
The  hearts  that  seek,  through  blood,  the  Son; 

0  warrior !  never  by  the  sword 
The  Saviour's  Holy  Land  is  won !" 

SIR  EDWARD  BDLWER  LTTTON. 


®l)c  ©ro»e. 


The  grave  is  deep,  and  stern,  and  still, 
And  terrors  round  its  margin  stand; 

It  with  a  veil  of  darkness  hides 
The  Undiscover'd  Land. 

A  silent  realm,  where  never  sounds 
The  voice  of  bird  in  flowing  song ; 

There  friendship's  roses  fallen  away. 
Are  strew'd  in  dust  along. 

The  bride  bereaved  may  mourn  in  vain, 
And  wring  her  hands  in  deep  despair; 

Loud  may  the  cry  of  orphans  be — 
Xo  sorrow  reacheth  there ! 

Yet  weary  hearts,  that  here  below 

Have  struggled  with  the  storms  of  life, 

Long  for  its  everlasting  peace, 
Untroubled  more  with  strife. 

For  to  us  in  no  other  place 

That  welcome,  look'd-for  rest  can  come  ; 
And  only  through  that  portal  dark 

Alan  goeth  to  his  home. 

OAL1S. 


21  Testament  ttpon  t\]t  ftassion. 


QUESTIONING,  unquiet  heart, 

To  Care  thy  sighs  I  do  bequeath; 
And  to  my  Sorrow's  deepest  smart, 

The  latest  gasp  that  I  do  breathe. 
To  Fortune  I  bequeath  my  folly, 

To  give  to  such  as  seek  her  grace : 
To  faithless  friends,  that  fortune  wholly, 

That  brought  me  in  this  heavy  case. 

To  Beauty  I  bequeath  mine  age ; 

To  Love,  the  hate  of  wit  and  sense ; 
To  Patience,  but  the  cure  of  rage ; 

To  Honour,  Virtue's  patience. 
Mine  enemies  I  do  forgive; 

And  to  my  friends  I  give  my  love ; 
And  wish  ungrateful  hearts  may  live 

But  like  ingratitude  to  prove. 

To  Pity  I  bequeath  my  tears, 

To  fill  her  eyes  when  they  be  dry; 
To  Faith,  the  fearless  thoughts  of  fears, 

To  give  to  life,  to  let  me  die. 
My  care  I  do  bequeath  to  Death, 

To  cut  the  threads  that  thoughts  do  spin ; 
And  at  my  latest  gasp  of  breath, 

To  Heaven  my  soul,  to  Hell  my  sin. 


SIR  NICHOLAS   BRETON. 


(  232  ) 


£l)c  Dissolution  of  "Nature. 


Time — time  that  now  Hies  as  on  pinions  of  wind, 
Still  leaving  the  past  and  its  ruins  behind, 
At  last  shall  be  stopp'd  in  the  speed  of  his  flight, 
Like  a  bird  which  the  arrow  is  fated  to  smite. 

Then,  then  the  great  sun,  like  a  vanishing  spark, 
Shall  rush  into  chaos  all  dreary  and  dark; 
And  the  moon,  in  her  dimness,  shall  drop  from  her  zone, 
Like  the  fig  when  the  breeze  of  the  autumn  hath  blown 

And  the  stars  shall  be  swept  in  a  moment  away, 
Like  the  morn  dews  that  shine  on  the  green  leafy  spray : 
And  the  heavens  that  are  stretch'd  out  from  pole  unto  pole, 
Shall  expire  in  a  blaze  like  a  perishing  scroll. 

And  a  fire  of  destruction  shall  compass  the  earth, 
From  the  east  to  the  west,  from  the  south  to  the  north, 
And  the  labours  of  man  sball  to  ashes  be  turnM, 
And  the  beauties  of  nature  be  blasted  and  burn'd. 

And  a  trump  shall  be  blown — and  the  dead  shall  awake 
From  their  long  silent  sleep  that  no  morning  could  break  ; 
From  their  long  silent  sleep  of  a  million  of  years — 
The  righteous  with  hope,  and  the  wicked  with  fears. 

And  their  Judge  shall  descend  on  his  chariot,  the  cloud  ; 
And  the  awe  shall  be  deep,  and  the  wail  shall  be  loud; 
And  the  race  of  mankind  shall  with  justice  be  given 
To  the  terrors  of  hell,  or  the  glories  of  heaven. 

KNOX 

(  333 ) 


®l)e  drttrifcrion. 


CITY  of  God  !  Jerusalem, 
Why  rushes  out  thy  living  stream  T 
The  turban'd  priest,  the  hoary  seer, 
The  Roman  in  his  pride  are  there ; 
And  thousands,  tens  of  thousands,  still 
Cluster  round  Calvary's  wild  hill. 

Still  onward  rolls  the  living  tide, 

There  rush  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride  ; 

Prince,  beggar,  soldier,  Pharisee, 

The  old,  the  young,  the  bond,  the  free ; 

The  nation's  furious  multitude, 

All  maddening  with  the  cry  of  blood. 

'Tis  glorious  morn  ; — from  height  to  height 
Shoot  the  keen  arrows  of  the  light; 
And  glorious  in  their  central  shower, 
Palace  of  holiness  and  power, 
The  temple  on  Moriah's  brow, 
Looks  a  new  risen  sun  below. 

But  wo  to  hill,  and  wo  to  vale ! 
Against  them  shall  come  forth  a  wail : 
And  wo  to  bridegroom  and  to  bride ! 
For  death  shall  on  the  whirlwind  ride ! 
And  wo  to  thee,  resplendent  shine, 
The  sword  is  out  for  thee  and  thine. 

( 234 ) 


the  CRUcn  ixion. 

Huh',  hide  thee  in  the  heavens,  thou  sun, 
I  1  of  blood  is  doi 

Upon  that  temple's  haughty  steep 

'fin's  las* 

Bee  destruction's  funeral  pall 
Blackening  o'er  Sion's  sacred  wall. 

Like  tempests  gathering  on  the  shore, 
They  hear  the  coming  armies  roar: 
They  see  in  Sion's  hall  of  state 
The  sign  that  maketh  desolate, 
The  idol  standard,  pagan  spear, 
The  tomb,  the  flame,  the  massacre. 

They  see  the  vengeance  fall ;  the  chain, 
The  long,  long  age  of  guilt  and  pain: 
The  exile's  thousand  desperate  years, 
The  more  than  groans,  the  more  than  tears ; 
Jerusalem,  a  vanished  name, 
Its  tribes  earth's  warning,  scoff,  and  shame. 

Still  pours  along  the  multitude, 

Still  rends  the  heavens  the  shout  of  blood, 

But  on  the  murderers'  furious  van, 

Who  totters  on  1     A  weary  man ; 

A  cross  upon  his  shoulders  bound, 

His  brow,  his  frame,  one  gushing  wound. 

And  now  he  treads  on  Calvary, 
What  slave  upon  that  hill  must  die  ? 
What  hand,  what  heart,  in  guilt,  imbrued, 
Must  be  the  mountain  vulture's  food? 
There  stand  two  victims  gaunt  and  bare, 
Two  culprit  emblems  of  despair. 


236  THE   CRUCIFIXION. 

Yet  who  the  third  1     The  yell  of  shame 

Is  frenzied  at  the  sufferer's  name ; 

Hands  clench'd,  teeth  gnashing,  vestures  torn, 

The  curse,  the  taunt,  the  laugh  of  scorn, 

All  that  the  dying  hour  can  sting. 

Are  round  thee  now,  thou  thorn-crown'd  King. 

Yet  cursed  and  tortured,  taunted,  spurn'd, 
No  wrath  is  for  the  wrath  return'd, 
No  vengeance  flashes  from  the  eye, 
The  sufferer  calmly  waits  to  die : 
The  sceptre  reed,  the  thorny  crown, 
Wake  on  that  pallid  brow  no  frown. 

At  last  the  word  of  death  is  given, 
The  form  is  bound,  the  nails  are  driven; 
Now  triumph,  Scribe  and  Pharisee ! 
Now,  Roman,  bend  the  mocking  knee ! 
The  cross  is  rear'd.    The  deed  is  done. 
There  stands  Messiah's  earthly  throne ! 

This  was  the  earth's  consummate  hour ! 
For  this  had  blazed  the  prophet's  power; 
For  this  had  swept  the  conqueror's  sword, 
Had  ravaged,  raised,  cast  down,  restored; 
Persepolis,  Rome,  Babylon, 
For  this  ye  sank,  for  this  ye  shone. 

Yet  things  to  which  earth's  brightest  beam 
Were  darkness,  earth  itself  a  dream, 
Foreheads  on  which  shall  crowns  be  laid, 
Sublime,  when  sun  and  star  shall  fade; 
Worlds  upon  worlds,  eternal  things, 
Hung  on  thy  anguish,  King  of  kings ! 


THE    CRUCIFIXION.  2>! 

Still  from  his  lip  no  curse  has  come, 
His  lofty  eye  has  look'd  no  doom; 
No  earthquake  burst,  no  angel  brand 
Crushes  the  black,  blaspheming  band  : 
What  say  those  lips  by  anguish  riven'? 
"God,  be  my  murderers  forgiven!" 

He  dies,  in  whose  high  victory 
The  slayer,  Death  himself,  shall  die. 
He  dies:  by  whose  all-conquering  tread 
Shall  yet  be  crush'd  the  serpent's  head ; 
From  his  proud  throne  to  darkness  hurl'd, 
The  god  and  tempter  of  this  world. 

He  dies,  creation's  awful  Lord, 

Jehovah,  Christ,  Eternal  Word! 

To  come  in  thunder  from  the  skies ; 

To  bid  the  buried  world  arise ; 

The  earth  his  footstool,  heaven  his  throne ; 

Redeemer!  may  thy  will  be  done. 


®I)e  Hflsttrortton. 


'Twas  in  the  middle  watch  of  night,  when  darkness  hung  profound 

About  the  city  of  the  Lord,  and  Judah's  heights  around, 

That  at  the  portal  of  a  tomb  a  Roman  guard  patroll'd — 

A  new-made  grave,  against  whose  mouth  a  mighty  stone  was  roll'd. 

Slow  tramp'd  the  guard,  and  hollowly  the  armour's  clank  was  heard, 
For  all  was  still  upon  the  hill,  and  not  a  vine-leaf  stirr'd ; 
The  neighbouring  city  silent  heaved,  in  hush'd  and  heavy  dream, 
And  sleep  outspread  with  wings  of  lead  hung  o'er  Jerusalem. 

The  listless  soldier's  heart  was  back  to  his  far-distant  home, 
Where  red  the  Tiber  roll'd  along  by  old  familiar  Rome  ; 
A  spell  was  cast  across  the  past,  and  shapes  of  things  gone  by 
Came  back  distinct  upon  his  soul,  and  pass'd  portentously. 

Then  thoughts  arose  of  where  he  was,  the  story  of  the  land, 
The  mystic  spirit  here  adored,  the  marvels  of  His  hand, 
The  rumour  of  divinity  beneath  that  tombstone  there ; 
And  closer  to  his  band  he  drew,  and  moved  his  lips  in  prayer. 

Whisper'd  the  palm-trees,  stirr'd  the  grass,  on  Kedron's  banks  below 
The  rushes  shiver'd ;  was't  a  breeze  that  shook  the  mountain  so  1 
It  gathers,  strengthens;  from  above  a  burst  of  thunder  breaks, 
And  horribly  beneath  their  feet  the  earth's  foundation  shakes ! 

A  step  is  in  the  earthquake,  and  a  voice  upon  the  storm ; 
Jehovah's  angel  hath  come  down,  reveal'd  in  human  form; 
Straight  to  the  sepulchre  he  strides,  rolls  back  the  pondrous  stone, 
And  in  a  flood  of  glory  forth  the  Crucified  hath  gone ! 

(238) 


Tin:   R]  [ON. 

V  r  iritneu'd  this  bj  portal  eyo,  for  struck  with  sore  dismay, 
The  steel-clad  heathens  fell  to  earth,  and  like  the  lifeless  lay; 
And  when  the  vision  disappear'd,  they  rallied  not  again, 
But  rose  and  hasted  from  the  spot,  like  conscience-stricken  men. 

Tis  past — and  all  hath  long  been  hush'd, — the  fading  stars  are  set, 
And  now  the  early  lines  of  light  gleam  o'er  Mount  Olivet, 
When  two  worn,  weeping  women  come — rebuke  them  not  this  morn  ; 
The  grateful  heart  will  hover  near,  though  all  should  laugh  to  scorn. 

They  stop— the  stone  is  roll'd  away — they  look,  and  quake  at  heart — 
There  are  the  grave-clothes  scatter'd  round ;  the  napkin  wrapp'd  apart; — 
The  tenant's  fled,  but,  in  his  stead,  One  of  seraphic  mien 
Sits  smiling  where  the  mangled  corse  of  Him  they  sought  had  been. 

Why,  daughters  of  Jerusalem,  why  bow  ye  thus  the  knee  1 
Seek  ye  the  man  whose  life-blood  ran  from  yon  accursed  tree  ? 
Go — be  of  comfort ;  he  hath  left  this  dark  and  cheerless  prison ; 
The  work  is  done,  and  Mary's  son,  the  Lord  of  lords,  is  risen ! 

When  man  would  bend  in  pain  of  heart  o'er  some  beloved  tomb, 
Oh,  may  a  voice  as  sweet  as  this  make  answer  from  the  gloom- 
That  when  the  bitterness  of  death  to  dust  directs  the  eyes, 
An  angel  may  be  waiting  there,  to  turn  them  to  the  skies  ! 


Pass  on,  Relentless  tDorltr. 


Swifter  and  swifter,  day  by  day, 

Down  Time's  unquiet  current  hurl'd, 
Thou  passest  on  thy  restless  way, 

Tumultuous  and  unstable  world  ! 
Thou  passest  on  !     Time  hath  not  seen 

Delay  upon  thy  hurried  path ; 
And  prayers  and  tears  alike  have  been 

In  vain  to  stay  thy  course  of  wrath  ! 

Thou  passest  on,  and  with  thee  go 

The  loves  of  youth,  the  cares  of  age ; 
And  smiles  and  tears,  and  joy  and  wo, 

Are  on  thy  history's  troubled  page ! 
There,  every  day,  like  yesterday, 

Writes  hopes  that  end  in  mockery ; 
But  who  shall  tear  the  veil  away 

Before  the  abyss  of  things  to  be  ? 

Thou  passest  on,  and  at  thy  side, 
Even  as  a  shade,  Oblivion  treads, 

And  o'er  the  dreams  of  human  pride 
His  misty  shroud  for  ever  spreads ; 


{ -2;o 


PASS  ON,    REJ  !    WORLD.  24  1 

Where  all  thine  iron  hand  Ir.ith  tr  •  I 

Upon  th-.it  gloomy  scroll  to-.' 
With  records  ages  since  effaced, — 

Like  them  shall  live,  like  them  decay. 

Thou  passcst  on,  with  thee  the  vain, 

Who  sport  upon  thy  flaunting  blaze, 
Pride,  framed  of  dust  and  folly's  train, 

Who  court  thy  love,  and  run  thy  ways : 
But  thou  and  I, — and  be  it  so, — 

Press  onwards  to  eternity  ; 
Vet  not  together  let  us  go 

To  that  deep-voiced  but  shoreless  sea. 

Thou  hast  thy  friends, — I  would  have  mine  ; 

Thou  hast  thy  thoughts, — leave  me  my  own ; 
I  kneel  not  at  thy  gilded  shrine, 

I  bow  not  at  thy  slavish  throne  : 
I  see  them  pass  without  a  sigh, — 

They  wake  no  swelling  raptures  now, 
The  fierce  delights  that  fire  thine  eye, 

The  triumphs  of  thy  haughty  brow. 

Pass  on,  relentless  world  !  I  grieve 

No  more  for  all  that  thou  hast  riven ; 
Pass  on,  in  God's  name, — only  leave 

The  things  thou  never  yet  hast  given; 
A  heart  at  ease,  a  mind  at  home, 

Affections  fix'd  above  thy  sway, 
Faith,  set  upon  a  world  to  come, 

And  patience  through  life's  little  day. 

ROE  LUNT. 

16 


Retire  (Jljristtcm  Bcncnolcnce,  t!)e  Source  of  sublime  anb 
lasting  Qappincss. 

Wouldst  thou  from  sorrow  find  a  sweet  relief] 
Or  is  thy  heart  oppress'd  with  woes  untold  ] 
Balm  wouldst  thou  gather  for  corroding  grief — 
Pour  blessings  round  thee  like  a  shower  of  gold? 
'Tis  when  the  rose  is  wrapp'd  in  many  a  fold 
Close  to  its  heart,  the  worm  is  wasting  there 
Its  life  and  beauty  ;  not  when,  all  unroll'd, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  its  bosom,  rich  and  fair, 
Breathes  freely  its  perfumes  throughout  the  ambient  air. 

Wake,  thou  that  sleepest  in  enchanted  bowers, 
Lest  these  lost  years  should  haunt  thee  on  the  night 
When  death  is  waiting  for  thy  numbered  hours 
To  take  their  swift  and  everlasting  flight; 
Wake,  ere  the  earth-born  charm  unnerve  thee  quite, 
And  be  thy  thoughts  to  work  divine  address'd  ; 
Do  something  —  do  it  soon  —  with  all  thy  might ; 
An  angel's  wing  would  droop,  if  long  at  rest, 
And  God  himself,  inactive,  were  no  longer  bless'd. 

Some  high  or  humble  enterprise  of  good 
Contemplate,  till  it  shall  possess  thy  mind, 
Become  thy  study,  pastime,  rest,  and  food, 
And  kindle  in  thy  heart  a  flame  refined. 
Pray  Heaven  for  firmness  thy  whole  soul  to  bind 
To  this  thy  purpose  —  to  begin,  pursue, 
With  thoughts  all  fix'd,  and  feelings  purely  kind ; 
Strength  to  complete,  and  with  delight  review, 
And  grace  to  give  the  praise  where  all  is  ever  due. 

(242) 


ACTIVE   christian    BENEVOLENCE.  243 

No  good  of  worth  sublime  will  Heaven  permii 
To  light  on  man  as  from  the  passing  air; 
The  lamp  of  genius,  though  by  nature  lit, 
If  not  protected,  pruned,  and  fed  with  care, 
Soon  dies,  or  runs  to  waste  with  fitful  glare; 
And  learning  is  a  plant  that  spreads  and  towers 
Slow  as  Columbia's  aloe,  proudly  rare, 
That,  'mid  gay  thousands,  with  the  suns  and  showers 
Of  half  a  century,  grows  alone  before  it  flowers. 


Has  immortality  of  name  been  given 
To  them  that  idly  worship  hills  and  groves, 
And  burn  sweet  incense  to  the  queen  of  Heaven'? 
Did  Newton  learn  from  fancy,  as  it  roves, 
To  measure  worlds,  and  follow  where  each  moves'? 
Did  Howard  gain  renown  that  shall  not  cease, 
By  wanderings  wild,  that  Nature's  pilgrim  loves  ? 
Or  did  Paul  gain  heaven's  glory  and  its  peace, 
By  musing  o'er  the  bright  and  tranquil  isles  of  Greece "? 


Beware,  lest  thou  from  sloth,  that  would  appear 
But  lowliness  of  mind,  with  joy  proclaim 
Thy  want  of  worth  ;  a  charge  thou  couldst  not  hear 
From  other  lips  without  a  blush  of  shame, 
Or  pride  indignant;  then  be  thine  to  blame, 
And  make  thyself  of  worth ;  and  thus  enlist 
The  smiles  of  all  the  good,  the  dear  to  fame; 
'Tis  infamy  to  die  and  not  be  miss'd, 
Or  let  all  soon  fonret  that  thou  didst  e'er  exist. 


Rouse  to  some  work  of  high  and  holy  love, 
And  thou  an  angel's  happiness  shalt  know, — 
Shalt  bless  the  earth  while  in  the  world  above ; 
The  good  begun  by  thee  shall  onward  flow 


244  ACTIVE    CHRISTIAN    BENEVOLENCE. 

In  many  a  branching  stream,  and  wider  grow : 
The  seed,  that,  in  these  few  and  fleeting  hours, 
Thy  hands  unsparing  and  unwearied  sow, 
Shall  deck  thy  grave  with  amaranthine  flowers, 
And  yield  thee  fruits  divine  in  heaven's  immortal  bovvers. 

CARLOS 


GU)e  JTctlla  of  Niagara. 


The  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my  brain, 

While  I  look  upward  to  thee.     It  would  seem 

As  if  God  pour'd  thee  from  his  "  hollow  hand," 

And  hung  his  bow  upon  thine  awful  front ; 

And  spoke  in  that  loud  voice,  which  seem'd  to  him 

Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's  sake, 

"The  sound  of  many  waters;"  and  had  bade 

Thy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back, 

And  notch  His  centuries  in  the  eternal  rocks. 

Deep  calleth  unto  deep.     And  what  are  we, 

That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sublime? 

Oh !  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rung 

From  war's  vain  trumpet,  by  thy  thundering  side  ! 

Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make 

In  his  short  life,  to  thy  unceasing  roar  ! 

And  yet,  bold  babbler,  what  art  thou  to  Him 

Who  drown'd  a  world,  and  heap'd  the  waters  far 

Above  its  loftiest  mountains'?  —  a  light  wave, 

That  breaks,  and  whispers  of  its  Maker's  might. 

J.    &.    C.    BRAIN AR[ 


(Dk  on  tljc  Creation. 

The  beayeDI  declare  the  glory  of  God,  and  the  firmament  showcth  his  handy  work. 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 

And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 

Their  great  Original  proclaim. 

The  unwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day, 

Does  his  Creator's  power  display, 

And  publishes  to  every  land 

The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 

The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 

And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth 

Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth ; 

Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 

And  all  the  planets,  in  their  turn, 

Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though  in  solemn  silence  all 

Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball ; 

What,  though  no  real  voice,  nor  sound, 

Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found ! 

In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 

And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice  : 

For  ever  singing,  as  they  shine, 

"  The  Hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 

JOSEPH    ADDISON. 

(245) 


ffemn. 


Lo,  the  lilies  of  the  field, 

How  their  leaves  instruction  yield  ! 

Hark  to  Nature's  lesson  given 

By  the  blessed  birds  of  heaven ! 

Every  bush  and  tufted  tree 

Warbles  sweet  philosophy : 

"  Mortal,  fly  from  doubt  and  sorrow, 

God  provideth  for  the  morrow  ! 

"  Say,  with  richer  crimson  glows 
The  kingly  mantle  than  the  rose? 
Say,  have  kings  more  wholesome  fare 
Than  we,  poor  citizens  of  air ; 
Barns  nor  hoarded  grain  have  we, 
Yet  we  carol  merrily ; 
Mortal,  fly  from  doubt  and  sorrow: 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow  ! 

"  One  there  lives,  whose  guardian  eye 
Guides  our  humble  destiny; 
One  there  lives,  who,  Lord  of  all, 
Keeps  our  feathers  lest  they  fall ; 
Pass  we  blithely  then  the  time, 
Fearless  of  the  snare  and  lime, 
Free  from  doubt  and  faithless  sorrow : 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow  ! " 


(246; 


Song  of  tljc  Stars. 


When  the  radiant  mom  of  creation  broke, 

And  the  world  in  the  smile  of  God  awoke, 

And  the  empty  realms  of  darkness  and  death 

Were  mov'd  through  their  depths  by  I  lis  mighty  breath  ; 

And  orbs  of  beauty,  and  spheres  of  flame, 

From  the  void  abyss  by  myriads  came, 

In  the  joy  of  youth,  as  they  darted  away 

Through  the  widening  wastes  of  space  to  play, 

Their  silver  voices  in  chorus  rung, 

And  this  was  the  song  the  bright  ones  sung: 

Away,  away,  through  the  wide,  wide  sky, 

The  fair  blue  fields  that  before  us  lie : 

Each  sun  with  the  worlds  that  round  us  roll, 

Each  planet  pois'd  on  her  turning  pole, 

With  her  isles  of  green,  and  her  clouds  of  white, 

And  her  waters  that  lie  like  fluid  light. 

For  the  Source  of  Glory  uncovers  his  face, 
And  the  brightness  o'erfiows  unbounded  space; 
And  we  drink,  as  we  go,  the  luminous  tides 
In  our  ruddy  air  and  our  blooming  sides : 
Lo,  yonder  the  living  splendours  play  ! 
Away,  on  your  joyous  path,  away  ! 

Look,  look,  through  our  glittering  ranks  afar, 
In  the  infinite  azure,  star  after  star, 
How  they  brighten  and  bloom  as  they  swiftly  pass  ! 
How  the  verdure  runs  o'er  each  rolling  mass, 
And  the  path  of  the  gentle  winds  is  seen, 
When  the  small  waves  dance,  and  the  young  woods  lean. 

[•0] 


24S  SOXG    OF    THE    STARS. 

And  see,  where  the  brighter  day-beams  pour, 
How  the  rainbows  hang  in  the  sunny  shower ! 
And  the  morn  and  the  eve,  with  their  pomp  of  hues 
Shift  o'er  the  bright  planets  and  shed  their  dews  ! 
And  'twist  them  both,  o'er  the  teeming  ground, 
With  her  shadowy  cone,  the  night  goes  round. 

Away,  away  !  —  in  our  blossoming  bowers, 
In  the  soft  air  wrapping  these  spheres  of  ours, 
In  the  seas  and  fountains  that  shine  with  morn, 
See,  love  is  brooding,  and  life  is  born, 
And  breathing  myriads  are  breaking  from  night, 
To  rejoice,  like  us,  in  motion  and  light. 

Glide  on  in  your  beauty,  ye  youthful  spheres  ! 
To  weave  the  dance  that  measures  the  years. 
Glide  on  in  the  glory  and  gladness  sent 
To  the  farthest  wall  of  the  firmament, 
The  boundless  visible  smile  of  Him, 
To  the  veil  of  whose  brow  our  lamps  are  dim. 

"W.    C-    BRYANT. 


THE     END, 


LINDSAY  &    BLAKISTON 
PUBLISH   Til  i: 

AMERICAN  FEMALE  POETS: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES, 

BY 
CAROLIN  E    M  A  Y. 

AN  ELEGANT  VOLUME,   WITH   A   HANDSOME   VIGNETTE   TITLE, 

A  N  D 

PORTRAIT  OF   MRS.  OSGOOD, 
The  Literary  contents  of  this  work  contain  copious  selections  from 
the  writings  of 
Anne  Bradstrcct,  Jane  Turcll,  Anne  Eliza  Bleecker,  Margaretta 
V.  Paiigcres,  Phillis  Wheatlcy,  Mercy  Warren,  Sarah  Porter, 
Sarah   Wentworth    Morton,    Mrs.    Little,    Maria    A.    Brooks, 
Lyilia  Huntley  Sigourncy,  Anna  Maria  Wells,  Caroline  Oil- 
man, Sarah  Joscpha  Hale,  Maria  •James,  .Tessie  G.  M'Cartee, 
Mrs.  Gray,   Eliza   Pollen,   Louisa  Jane    Hall,  Mrs*  Swift, 
Mrs.  E.  C.  Kinney,  Marguerite  St.  Leon  Loud,  Luclla  J. 
Case,  Elizabeth  Bogart,  A.  D.  Woodbridgc,  Elizabeth 
Margaret  Chandler,  Emma  C.  Embury,  Sarah  Helena 
Whitman,  Cynthia   Taggart,   Elizabeth  J.  Eamcs, 
&c.  «fcc.  &c. 
The  whole  forming  a  beautiful  specimen  of  the  highly  cultivated  state  oi 
the  arts  in  the  United  States,  as  regards  the  paper,  topography, 
and  binding  in  rich  and  various  styles. 

EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  PREFACE. 
One  of  the  most  striking  characteristics  of  the  present  age 
is  the  number  of  female  writers,  especially  in  the  department 
of  belles-lettres.  This  is  even  more  true  of  the  United 
States,  than  of  the  old  world ;  and  poetry,  which  is  the  lan- 
guage of  the  affections,  has  been  freely  employed  among  us 
to  express  the  emotions  of  woman's  heart. 

As  the  rare  exotic,  costly  because  of  the  distance  from 
which  it  is  brought,  will  often  suffer  in  comparison  of  beauty 
and  fragrance  with  the  abundant  wild  flowers  of  our  mea- 
dows and  woodland  slopes,  so  the  reader  of  our  present 
volume,  if  ruled  by  an  honest  taste,  will  discover  in  the  effu- 
sions of  our  gifted  countrywomen  as  much  grace  of  form, 
and  powerful  sweetness  of  thought  and  feeling,  as  in  the 
blossoms  of  woman's  genius  culled  from  other  lands. 


LINDSAY  &    BLAKISTON 

PUELISH   THE 

BRITISH    FEMALE    POETS: 

WITH 

BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES, 

BY 

GEO.   W.   BETHUNE. 

AN   ELEGANT  VOLUME,   WITH    A   HANDSOME   VIGNETTE    TITLE, 

AND 

PORTRAIT  OF  THE  HON.  MRS,  NORTON, 

The  Literary  contents  of  this  work  contain  copious  selections  from 

the  writings  of 

Anne  Boleyn,  Countess  of  Arundel,  Q,ueen  Elizabeth,  Duchess  of 

Newcastle,  Elizabeth  Carter,  Mrs*  Tighc,   ftliss  Hannah   More, 

Mrs*  He  mans.  Lady  Flora  Hastings,   Mrs*  Amelia   Opie,    Miss 

Eliza  Cook,  Mrs.  Southey,  Miss  Lowe,  Mrs.  Norton,  Elizabeth 

B.  Barrett,  Catharine  Parr,  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  Countess 

of  Pembroke,  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague,  Mrs.  Gre" 

ville,  Mrs.  Barbauld,  Joanna  Baillie,  Letitia  Elizabeth 

London,  Charlotte  Elizabeth,   Mary  Russell   Mitford, 

Mrs.  Coleridge,  Mary  Howitt,  Frances  Kemble  Butler, 

•fee.  &c.  &c. 

The  whole  forming  a  beautiful  specimen  of  the  highly  cultivated  state  of 

the  arts  in  the  United  States,  as  regards  the  paper,  typography, 

and  binding  in  rich  and  various  styles. 

OPINIONS  OF  THE  PRESS. 
In  the  department  of  English  poetry,  we  have  long  looked  for  a  spirit  cast  in  nature's  finest,  yet 
most  elevated  mould,  possessed  of  the  most  delicate  and  exquisite  taste,  the  keenest  perception 
of  the  innate  true  and  beautiful  in  poetry,  as  opposed  to  their  opposites,  who  could  give  to  us  a 
pure  collection  of  the  British  Female  Poets;  many  of  them  among  the  choicest  spirits  that  ever 
graced  and  adorned  humanity.  The  object  of  our  search,  in  this  distinct  and  important  mission, 
is  before  us;  and  we  acknowledge  at  once  in  Dr.  Bethune.  the  gifted  poet,  the  eloquent  divine, 
and  the  humble  Christian,  one  who  combines,  in  an  eminent  degree,  all  the  characteristics  above 
alluded  to.  It  raises  the  mind  loftier,  and  makes  it  purified  with  the  soul,  to  float  in  an  atmosphere 
of  spiritual  purity,  to  peruse  the  elegant  volume  before  us,  chaste,  rich,  and  beautiful,  without  and 
within. — The  Spectator. 


We  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  any  previous  attempt  to  form  a  poetical  bouquet  exclusively 
from  gardens  planted  by  female  hands,  and  made  fragrant  and  beautiful  by  woman's  gentle  culture. 
We  know  few  men  equally  qualified  with  the  gifted  Editor  of  tins  volume  for  the  tasteful  and 
judicious  selection  and  adjustment  of  the  various  (lowers  that  are  to  delight  with  their  sweetness, 
soothe  with'their  softness,  and  impart  profit  with  their  sentiment.  The  volume  is  enriched  with 
Biographical  Sketches  of  some  sixty  poetesses,  each  sketch  being  followed  with  specimens  charac- 
teristic of  her  style  and  powers  of  verse.  In  beauty  of  typography,  and  general  getting  up,  this 
volume  is  quite  equal  to  the  best  issues  of  its  tasteful  and  enterprising  publishers.— Episcopal  Recorder. 


It  is  handsomely  embellished,  and  may  be  described  as  a  casket  of  gems.  Dr.  Bethune,  who  is 
himself  a  poet  of  no  mean  genius,  has  in  this  volume  exhibited  the  most  refined  taste.  The  work 
may  be  regarded  as  a  treasury  of  nearly  all  the  best  pieces  of  British  Female  Poets. — Inquirer. 

This  volume,  which  is  far  more  suited  for  a  holyday  gift  than  many  which  are  prepared  expressly 
for  the  purpose,  contains  extracts  from  ail  the  most,  distinguished  English  Female  Poets,  selected 
with  the  taste  and  judgment  which  we  have  a  right  to  expect  from  the  eminent  divine  and  highly 
gifted  poet  whose  name  adorns  the  title  page.  It  is  a  rare  collection  of  the  richest  gems.—  Balti- 
more American. 


Dr.  Bethune  lias  selected  his  materials  with  exquisite  taste,  culling  the  fairest  and  sweetest 
flowers  from  the  extensive  field  cultivated  by  the  British  Female  Poets.  The  brief  Biographical 
.Notices  add  much  interest  to  the  volume,  and  vastly  increase  us  value.  It  is  pleasant  to  find  hard- 
working and  close-thinking  divines  thus  recreating  themselves,  and  contributing  by  their  recrea- 
tions to  the  refinement  of  the  age.  Dr.  Bethune  has  brought  to  his  task  poetic  enthusiasm,  and  a 
eady  perception  of  the  pure  and  beautiful.— N.  Y.  Commercial. 


A  NEW  AM)  BEAUTIFUL  AMERICAN  GIFT-BOOK, 

ALTOGETHER    ORIGINAL. 


LINDSAY    AND    BLAKISTON 

HAVE  JUST  PUBLISHED 

THE   AMERICAN    GALLERY   OF   ART, 

win  i 
ELEVEN  ILLUSTRATIONS,  ENGRAVED  ON  STEEL. 

PAINTINGS  BY  AMERICAN  ARTISTS, 

LIST      OF      ILLUSTRATIONS. 

f'roissart  reading  his  Chronicle  to  Queen  Philippa Painted  by  Rothermel. 

Vignette  Title  Page Painted  by  Thomas  Buchanan  Sean 

The  Artisfs  Dream Designed  by  John  Sartain. 

The  Rose-Bud Painted  by  Thomas  Bully. 

The  First  Ship Painted  by  Joshua  Shaw. 

Taking  Sanctuary Painted  by  W.  E.  Winner. 

The  Haunted  Stream Painted  by  James  Hamilton. 

Zaida Painted  by  Samuel  B.  Waugh. 

Tired  of  Play Painted  by  John  Neagle. 

Peasant  Girl  of  Frascati Painted  by  S.  S.  Osgood. 

Cascade  near  the  Falls  of  the  Kanhawa Painted  by  Russell  Smith. 

WITH 

POETICAL  AND  PROSE  CONTRIBUTIONS, 

BY   DISTINGUISHED   AMERICAN   AUTHORS, 

An  elegant  quarto  volume,  richly  bound  in  cloth,  gilt,  with  an 
emblematical  side  stamp,  in  gold. 

It  has  long  been  the  desire  of  Mr.  Sartain,  as  he  states  in  the  preface,  to  pre- 
sent a  work  on  the  "Painters  of  America,  richly  embellished  with  engraved 
specimens  from  the  labours  of  all  the  meritorious  artists  of  the  country" — 
and  expensive  undertaking,  only,  perhaps,  capable  of  accomplishment,  by 
to  the  work  a  periodic  character,  and  issuing  the  successive  volumes,  at  the  gift- 
s.  in  the  splendid  form  of  annuals.     Thus,  ultimately,  may  be  completed, 
ling  to  the  original  design,  a  gallery  of  American  Painters,  in  which  "  every 
of  merit  in  the  country  will  be  represented." 
The  present  volume  opens  the  series  very  successfully,  with  eleven  plates  in 
mezzotint,  all  of  them  engraved  by  Mr.  Sartain  in  his  best  style,  from  designs 
by  Sally,  Rothermel,  Read.  Waugh,  Shaw,  Neagle,  Winner.  Smith,  Hamilton, 
1,  and   Sartain  himself, — some  of  them   highly  beautiful  and   imaginative 
The   poetical   and  prose   illustrations   are    by  well-known   and   popular 
ican writers.    We  cannot  doubt  the  Buccess  of  a  publication  so  well  adapted 
for  the  purposes  of  a  gift-book  and  an  ornament  to  the  parlour  and  boudoir. — 
North  Aim  riean. 

The  purpose  of  this  work  is  to  furnish  a  gallery  of  characteristic  specimens 
from  the  works  of  the  "  Pah  \  ttEKK  \,"  where  ev<  ry  artist  of  merit  in 

the  country  will  be  represented.     Its  literary  department  will  be  original,  whilst 
ma  of  art  will  be  faithful  representations  of  the  most  interesting  productions 
of  dom  is,  talent,  and  acquirement  in  the  use  of  the  brush.     The  work 

is  truly  American,  and.  a-  such,  will  command  that  to  which  it  is  justly  entitled, 
a  generous  and  extensive  support. — Episcopal  Recorder. 


LINDSAY  &  BLAKISTON  PUBLISH, 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LIFE, 

A   TRULY   AMERICAN    BOOK,  ENTIRELY   ORIGINAL, 

PRESENTING  A  VIEW  OF  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LIFE, 

FROM  INFANCY  TO  OLD  AGH: 

Illustrated  by  a  series  of  Eleven  Engravings,  beautifully 
executed  on  Steel, 

BY  J.  SARTAIN,  PHILADELPHIA, 

INCLUDING 

Infancy,  (Vignette  Title,)  Designed by  Schmitz. 

Childhood,  Painted "  Eichholtz. 

Boyhood,  (Frontispiece,)  Painted "  Osgood. 

Girlhood "  Rossi  ter. 

Maidenhood "  Rothermel. 

The  Bride "  Rossiter. 

The  Mother «  Rossiter. 

The  Widow "  Rossiter. 

Manhood,  Designed "  Rothermel. 

Old  Age "  Rothermel. 

The  Shrouded  Mirror,  Designed "  Rev.  Dr.  Morton. 

The  literary  contents  comprise  original  articles  in  prose  and  verse,  from 

the  pens  of 

Rev.  G.  W.  Bethune,  Rev.  Clement  M.  Butler,  Mrs.  Sigourney,  Mrs 

Osgood,  Mrs.  Hale,  Mrs.  Ellet,  J.  T.  Headley,  Rev.  M.  A.  Df 

Wolfe  Howe,  Miss  Sedgwick,  Rev.  Wm.  B.  Sprague,  Rev. 

H.  Hastings  Weld,  Miss  Caroline  E.  Roberts,  Bushrod 

Bartlett,  Esq..,  Alice  G.  Lee,  Hope  Hesseltine, 

AND   OTHER  FAVOURITE  AUTHORS  OF   OUR  OWN  COUNTRY. 

EDITED  BY  MRS.  L.  C.  TDTHILL, 

And  richly  bound  in  various  styles. 


OPINIONS   OF   THE   PRESS. 

This  is  an  elegant  volume ;  with  an  excellent  design,  combining  all  that  is  attractive 
in  typographical  execution,  with  beautiful  engravings,  it  illustrates  the  progress  of 
human  life  in  a  series  of  mezzotints  of  the  most  finished  style.  These  handsome  pic- 
tures present  boyhood  and  girlhood,  the  lover  and  the  loved,  the  bride  and  the  mother, 
the  widow  and  old  age,  with  many  other  scenes  that  will  leave  a  pleasing  and  salutary 
impression.  The  literary  department  is  executed  by  a  variety  of  able  and  entertaining 
writers,  forming  altogether  a  beautiful  gift-book,  appropriate  to  all  seasons.— JV.  Y.  Ob- 


A  most  beautiful  gem  of  a  book,  and  a  superb  specimen  of  artistical  skill,  as  well  as 
a  "Mirror  of  Life."  As  a  brilliant  and  tasteful  ornament  for  the  centre-table,  or  a 
memento  of  affection  and  good  wishes,  to  be  presented  in  the  form  of  a  Birthday, 
Christmas,  or  New  Year's  pift,  to  a  friend,  it  is  richly  entitled  to  the  consideration  aiid 
patronage  of  the  public—  Christian  Observer. 


The  idea  is  a  happy  one,  and  the  work  is  every  way  worthy  of  its  subject.  Without 
being  too  costly,  it  is  in  every  respect  a  very  handsome  volume;  the  sentiments  it  con- 
tains are  not  only  unobjectionable,  but  salutary;  and  we  cannot  conceive  a  gift  of  the 
kind  which,  between  intelligent  friends,  would  be  more  acceptable  to  the  receiver  or 
Honourable  to  the  giver.— JV."y.  Commercial. 


LINDSAY  &  BLAKISTON 

HAVE  RECENTLY  PUBLISHED, 

SCENES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SAVIOUR, 

BY    THE 

POETS  AND    PAINTERS: 

CO.VTAI.M.VG 

TttANY    GEMS     OF     ART     AND     GENIUS, 

ILLUSTRATIVE     OF 

THE  SAVIOUR'S  LIFE  AND  PASSION. 

EDITED    BY    THE 

REV.   RUFUS   GRISWOLD. 

THE   ILLUSTRATION'S,  WHICH  ARE  EXQUISITELY  ENGRAVED  OX  STEEL, 
BY  JOHN  SARTAIN,  ARE  : 

Th«  £&  ^TVTn'f  hy  "V  ?JUSSin  :  I  W;iIk'n?  on  the  Sea,  by  Henry  Richter ; 

The  Savionr.bv  Paul  Delaroche;  I  The  Ten  Upers.  by  A.  Vandyke  : 

Christ  by  the  Well  of  Sychar  by  Cmehe  Signol;  I  The  Last  Sapper,  bv  Benjamin  W« 

1  he  Daughter  ot  Janus,  by  Delonne  ;  |  The  Women' at  the  Sepulchre,  by  Philip  Viet 

THE  LITERARY  CONTEXTS,  COMPRISING  SIXTY-FOUR  POEMS,  ARE  BY 

Milton,  Hemans,  Montgomery,  Keble,  Mrs.  Sigonrncy,  Miss  Lan- 

don,  Dale,  Willis,  Bulnnch.  Bethune,  Longfellow,  Whittier, 

Croly,  Klopstock,  Mrs.  Osgood,  Pierpont,  Crosswell,  and 

other  celebrated  Poets  of  this  and  other  Countries. 

The  volume  is  richly  and  beautifully  bound  in  Turkey  Morocco,  gilt,  white 
calf  extra,  or  embossed  cloth,  gilt  edges,  sides  and  back. 

We  commend  this  volume  to  the  attention  of  those  who  would  place  a 
Souvenir  in  the  hands  ot  their  friends,  to  invite  them  in  the  purest  strains  of 
poetry,  and  by  the  eloquence  ot  art,  to  study  the  Life  of  the  Saviour.— Christ.  Obs. 

The  contents  are  so  arranged  as  to  constitute  a  Poetical  and  Pictorial  Life 
ot  the  Saviour,  and  we  can  think  of  no  more  appropriate  gift-book.  In  typo- 
graphy, embellishments,  and  binding,  we  have  recently  "seen  nothing  more 
tasteful  and  rich. — Xorth  American.  ° 

We  like  this  book,  as  well  for  its  beautv  as  for  its  elevated  character,  ft 
is  just  such  an  one  as  is  suited,  either  for  a  library,  or  a  parlour  centre-table  ■ 
and  no  one  can  arise  trom  its  perusal  without  feeling  strongly  the  sublimity 
and  enduring  character  ot  the  Christian  religion.— Harrisburg  Telegraph. 

This  is  truly  a  splendid  volume  in  all  its  externals,  while  its  contents  are 
richly  worthy  of  the  magnificent  style  in  which  they  are  presented.  As  illus- 
trations of  the  Life  a:  ,„r  0f  mankind,  it  will  form  an 
appropriate  5>otivenir  tor  the  season  in  which  we  commemorate  his  coming 
upon  earth.— Atais  Gazette.  s 


Christ's  charge  to  Peter,  by  Raphael ; 
Peter  and  John  healing  the  Lame  Man  at  the 
Beautiful  Gate  of  the  Temple,  by  Raphael ; 
Paul  before  Airrippa.  by  Sartam  ; 
John  on  the  Isle  of  Patmos,  by  Decaine. 


SCENES  IN  THE  LIVES  OF  THE  APOSTLES ; 

ILLUSTRATED    BY 

CELEBRATED  POETS  AND  PAINTERS. 

EDITED    DY 

H.   HASTINGS   WELD. 
Eight  Illustrations,  beautifully  Engraved  on  Steel,  by  Sartaiu. 

The  Redeemer,  painted  by  Decaine  —  Frontis- 
piece ; 

/jitioch  m  Syria,  by  Harding— Vignette  title; 

John  reproving  Herod,  by  Le  Bran  ; 

Cim^t.  with  Ins  Disciple^,  weeping  over  Jerusa- 
lem, by  Begas ; 

THE  LITERARY  CONTEXTS  CONSIST  OF  UPWARDS  OF  SEVENTY  POEMS,  BY 

Bishop  Heber,   Lowell,  Keble,  Hannah  F.  Gould,  Clark,  Mrs. 
Hemans,  3Irs.  Sigourney,  Barton,  Bryant,  31iss  Landon,  Tap- 
pan,  Pierpont,  Longfellow,  3Jiss  Davidson,  Dale,  Cros- 
well,  Percival,  Bowring,  and  other  celebrated  Poets. 

Beautifully  bound,  in  various  styles,  to  match  "  Scenes  in  the  Life 
of  the  Saviour." 

We  do  not  know  where  we  could  find  a  more  elegant  and  appropriate 
present  for  a  Christian  friend.  It  will  always  have  value.  It  is  not  one  of 
those  ephemeral  works  which  are  read,  looked  at,  and  forgotten.  It  tells  of 
scenes  dear  to  the  hearts  of  Christians,  which  must  ever  find  there  an  abiding 
place. — Banner  of  the  Cross. 

Here  is  truly  a  beautiful  volume,  admirable  in  design,  and  perfect  in  its 
execution.  The  editor,  with  a  refined  taste,  and  a  loving  appreciation  of 
Scripture  history,  has  selected  some  of  the  best  writings  of  ancient  and  modern 
authors  in  illustration  of  various  scenes  in  the  Lives  of  the  Apostles,  whilst 
his  own  facile  pen  has  given  us  in  prose  a  series  of  excellent  contributions. 
The  lyre  of  Heber  seems  to  vibrate  again  as  we  turn  over  its  pages  ;  and 
Keble,  Jenner,  Cowper,  Herrick,  Bernard,  Barton,  and  a  brilliant  host  of 
glowing  writers,  shine  again  by  the  light  of  Christian  truth,  and  the  beaming 
effulgence  of  a  pure  religion.  It  is  an  elegant  and  appropriate  volume  for  a 
Christmas  gift. —  Tra?iscript. 

The  exterior  is  novel  and  beautiful ;  the  typography  is  in  the  highest  style 
of  the  art  ;  and  the  engravings,  nine  in  number,  are  among  the  best  efforts 
of  Mr.  Sartain.  The  prose  articles  contributed  by  the  editor  are  well  written  ; 
and  the  poetical  selections  are  made  with  judgment.  The  volume  is  a  worthy 
companion  of  "  Scenes  in  the  Life  of  the  Saviour,"  and  both  are  much  more 
worthy  of  Christian  patronage  than  the  great  mass  of  annuals. — Presbyterian. 


The  above  volumes  are  among  the  most  elegant  specimens  from  the 
American  press.  In  neatness  and  chastenesa  of  execution,  they  are  perhaps 
unsurpassed.  The  engravings  are  of  the  highest  order;  and  illustrate  most 
strikingly,  and  with  great  beauty,  some  of  the  most  sublime  and  the  most 
touching  Scripture  scenes.  They  also  contain  some  of  the  richest  specimens 
ot  Sacred  Poetry,  whose  subject  and  style  are  such  as  deeply  to  interest  the 
imagination,  and  at  the  same  time  to  make  the  heart  better.  We  hope  the 
Christian's  table,  at  least,  may  be  adorned  with  the  volumes  above  mentioned, 
and  such  as  these. — New  England  Puritan. 


LINDSAY  &   BLAKISTON  PUBLISH, 

SCENES  IN  THE  LIVES  OF  THE  PATRIARCHS 
AND  PRGPHETS; 

A    COM  P  A  \  I  0  X    TO    THE 

SCENES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SAVIOUR  AND  THE  APOSTLES, 

EDITED  BY  THE  RET.  II.  BASTINGS  WELD. 

BEAUTIFULLY  ILLUSTRATED  LA- 
EIGHT    ENGRAVINGS    ON    STEEL,    BY    SARTAIN. 
INCLUDING 

Saul  presenting  bis  Daughter  to  David Tainted  by  Wood  ford  e. 

A  View  of  Hebron,  Vignette  Title-page u  Braeebridge. 

God's  Covenant  with  Noah "  Rothermel. 

Abraham  Offering  up  Isaac ■  Westall. 

The  Arrival  of  Rebekah "  Schopin. 

Jacob  at  the  House  of  Laban ■  Schopin. 

Moses  Smiting  the  Rock "  Murillo. 

Elijah  Fed  by  Ravens H  Corbould. 

With  a  choice  Selection  of  Matter  from  the  Writings  of 

Milton*,  Hemans,  Wordsworth,  Crolt,  Willis,  Young.  Sigourney 

Whittif.r,  Howitt,  Scott,  Heber,  Montgomery,  Milman, 

Hannah  Mobs,  Watts,  Dale,  Tappan,  and  other 

Eminent  Writers  of  this  and  other  Countries. 

Handsomely  hound  in  cloth  gilt,  Turkey  Morocco,  or  in  white  calf. 


OPINIONS   OF   THE   PRESS. 

The  character  of  the  scenes  represented,  the  pure  and  eloquent  sacred  poetry  which 
the  work  contain?,  render  it  a  hook  peculiarly  befitting  presentation  at  t! 
the  world  is  celebrating  the  birth  of  its  Saviour.     We  hope  this  joint  effort  of  the  i*»ncil 
and  pen  to  render  familiar  the  sacred  scenes  of  the  Old  T  stament,  will  meet  the  support 
which  it  deserves  from  all  lovers  of  the  sacred  volume. —  Christian  Jidcocate  and  Journal. 


We  do  but  simple  justice  when  we  declare,  that  it  has  seldom  fallen  to  our  lot  to 
notice  a  book  which  i  many  and  such  varied  attractions.     Mr.  Weld  has 

gathered  from  the  best  writers  the  most  "beautiful  of  their  works,  in  illustration  of  his 

rid  prepared  for  the  reader  a  rich  repast.    We  are  assured  that  the  wolun 
us  will,  lik.'  those  which  preceded  it.  come  acceptably  before  the  public,  and  be  a  favourite 
offering  during  the  approaching  holiday  season. — Graham's  Magazine. 

It  is  a  handsome  octavo,  beautifully  illustrated  with  engravings  on  steel,  in  Sartain': 
best  manner.  It  is  published  in  uniform  style  with  -'The  Scenes  in  the  Lite  of  tin.' 
Baviour,"  and  is  every  way  worthy  to  continue  this  fine   -  riptural  works. 

ary  portion  of  the  volume  is  admiral:  mbracing  many  of  the  most 

distinguished  names  in  .America.    As  a  work  of  art,  it  is  a  credit  to  the  book-making 
of  our  country.— Boston  jitlas. 

This  is  pre-eminently  a  book  of  beauty— printed  in  the  best  style,  on  the  finest  and 
fair.-st  paper,  and  embellished  with  the  richest  specimens  of  the  engraver's  art.  Its 
contents  comprise  a  choice  selection  from  the  writings  of  celebrated  poets,  illustrative 
Of  the  Character,  the  countries,  and  of  the  times  of  th<-  Patriarchs  and  Prophets.     The 

-pirit  and  character  Of  the  sacred  poetry  in  this  volume,  as  well  as  it-  - 
inc  beauty,  will  render  it  peculiarly  valuable  as  a  present  or  an  ornament  for  the  parlouf 
table.—  Christian  Observer. 


LINDSAY  &    BLAKISTON 

HAVE  JUST  PUBLISHED 

THE  WOMEN   OF  THE  SCRIPTURES, 

EDITED     BY     THE 

REV.    H.    HASTINGS   WELD; 

WITH 

ORIGINAL  LITERARY  CONTRIBUTIONS, 

BY 

DISTINGUISHED  AMERICAN  WRITERS: 

BEAUTIFULLY  ILLUSTRATED  BY 

TWELVE  SUPERB   ENGRAVINGS  ON  STEEL, 
BY  J,  SARTAIN,  PHILADELPHIA, 

FROM   ORIGINAL   DESIGNS,   EXPRESSLY   FOR   THE   WORK, 

BY   T,   P,    ROSSITER,    NEW    YORK: 


INCLUDING 

Miriam, 

Hannah, 

Esther, 

Eve, 

Ruth, 

The  Syrophenician 

Sarah, 

Queen  of  Sheba. 

Martha, 

Rachel, 

Shuuamite, 

The  Marys. 

Elegantly  Bound  in  White  Calf,  Turkey  Morocco,  and  Cloth. 
Extra,  with  Gilt  Edges. 


PREFACE. 

The  subject  of  this  book  entitles  it  to  a  high  place  among  illustrated 
volumes.  The  execution,  literary  and  artistic,  will,  we  are  confident,  be 
found  worthy  of  the  theme  ;  since  we  have  received  the  assistance  of 
authors  best  known  in  the  sacred  literature  of  our  country,  in  presenting, 
in  their  various  important  attitudes  and  relations,  the  Women  of  the 
ScRir-TURES.  The  contents  of  the  volume  were  prepared  expressly  for  it, 
with  the  exception  of  the  pages  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Balfour;  and  for  the 
republication  of  her  articles,  no  one  who  reads  them  will  require  an  apology. 
The  designs  for  the  engravings  are  original;  and  the  Publishers  trust  that 
in  the  present  volume  they  have  made  their  best  acknowledgment  for  the 
favour  with  which  its  predecessors  have  been  received.  The  whole,  they 
believe,  will  be  found  no  inapt  memento  of  those  to  whom  St.  Peter  refers 
the  sex  for  an  ensample  :  "  the  holy  women,  in  the  old  time." 


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KATHERINE  AND  KARL  G0£DECK£  | 
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HAZLETON.  PENNA. 


